Western Walkabout: Murder In The Waters
Richard Harris tells of a runner saved by the clack of a magpie's beak.
Since the big dam was built on the upper Canning in the great depression, the river has never been quite the same. It appears quite tamed, perfect for a kayak training area or a paddle upstream to the Kent Street weir, if you can find your way through the various billabongs.
The raging winter floods down through Riverton and South Perth from the old days are long gone.
In those days a man could drown bringing his stock across where the old Riley Bridge now stands. It’s hard to believe that, especially in these times, with the welcome swallows harvesting the dancing gnats and midges just above the calm, still surface. The old pastures have been rezoned as urban land and developed as medium density cottage housing. There never was such a lack of menace in a river – so calm, and peaceful.
Tell that to the pelican who was taken by a two-meter bull shark two summers ago in the shallows near the new Shelley Bridge on Leach Highway.
Tell that to the young college boy who died of hypothermia while part of a crew training in the middle of the river early one winter morning.
Tell it to the immigrant who developed a nasty ear infection from swimming in the still waters one hot day.
Unfortunately, calm, and still and beautiful, the river is yet capable of murder.
These were some of the thoughts that swarmed through John Stirling’s mind as he ran through the river regional parkland on a late summer afternoon. He had run this way many times and had his eye on a point about 60 meters ahead, keeping his head up and therefore not shortening his stride as fatigue set in.
He had a bad feeling about the day. Something wasn’t quite right. There were no bird calls.
“I believe there has been a murder committed in this park,” he mused. “Maybe not recently but the spirit of the dead lingers on and seems most dissatisfied.”
Having come to this conclusion, he strode on, looking forward to completing his training and settling in for a pleasant meal at home.
“Strange,” he thought. “Even the magpies are quiet – that is most unusual.”
Without warning, a large male magpie flashed past him at elbow length and buzzed over a tussock of grass about four meters ahead to his left at the side of the path. The bird’s beak clacked with a vicious snap.
John looked carefully at the tussock and saw a large tiger snake coiled at the side of the path, watching him steadily. The magpie had settled on a nearby bough and fluted a warning.
John stopped running, panting, hands at his sides. The snake remained steady.
“The tiger snakes have a reputation for being cheeky,” he thought. “This is its territory and it’s not going to get out of the way for me.”
He took a wide detour of the path to avoid the murder in the grass then made for home, determined he would be kind to magpies forever.
“I never thought I’d owe my life to a bird,” he mused.
“Do I have a guardian angel?”
A voice in his head replied “The boy that drowned bringing his cow across the river had a pet magpie. His ghost asked the bird’s great grandson to help you.”
John reflected that near his favorite river, not all is as peaceful as it seems. And a benign ghost or two are assets to the neighborhood.
