The Secret River - Short Story

As the night grew colder, the slim trees danced through the wind passing by Smasher Sullivans land. The open paddocked fields of green seemed so peaceful and serene against the dark forest that ended it. With weary shadows casting as night fell upon the tree tops Smasher sat on the porch of him home, alone, staring past the fields and deep into the forest that forever watched him. The hushed silence began to play games with his mind, his eyes scoping along the horizon and back again searching for any sign of movement that could spark the violence and power he craved to behold. A large black bird flew from the darkness and lost into the night sky in the blink of an eye. What seemed like hundreds more of these black figures retreated seconds later that caused ripples of chaos breaking the silence. Smasher panicked, grasping his rifle from the old wooden table beside him aiming into the distance, not at the commotion but of a small outline leaning upon a tree trunk. The figure grew larger and more prominent as it approached the opening close to the rusty farm fence encompassed by darkness. Smasher slowly rose to his feet; hands tightly wrapped around the rifle, boot buckles clinking together, and took a paused step towards the field. He crept closer, with each step squelching from the mud caught beneath his boots when finally he reached the fence. This rusting line of wire being the only thing between himself, and the black figure, which was now exposed from the depth of the forest. “Who goes there? You stepped ya self on the wrong land!”, Smasher cries, his voice bellowing upon the stillness. He stood, waiting for a cowardly reply, but all that could be heard was the crying of bush animals and the clashing of branches. The forest was brought to a complete hush as the figure took an unnerving stride towards Smasher and his face was finally revealed by the moonlight struck on the open plain. His somber skin stood out to Smasher like a bright light shining through a