Rain At Last

by Peter Harris
Copyright 2003

Broadcast on ABC radio in March 2003.

It was the little black ants that received the first warning of rain in Secret Gully. No-one believed them of course. We’d all forgotten what rain looked like. Anyway their tyrant Queen is regarded as a bit of a basket case by the locals, sending her scurrying minions on secretive missions to retrieve everything from peanut butter to butterflies wings. So it went unnoticed, when on a bright sunny morning great waves of toiling black ants began moving the entire royal residence from under the wheelbarrow, across the wallaby track and up into a dry hollow in the giant strangler fig.

The indian Koel complained a bit, as the determined army swarmed over his favourite branch. However, the rest of the population of Secret Gully was busy trying to scrounge enough food for the day from the parched bush, so his complaints went unheeded.
The little black ants toiled on through the long night, detouring only as far as the scrap bin to remove a slab of stale sponge cake on the way. It was a restless night for some of the other inhabitants as well. The humidity was rising and the Xmas crow muttered and cursed at frequent intervals. In a nearby eucalypt some gossiping parrots screeched with occasional manic laughter. The humans tossed and turned, kicked off their blankets and longed for daylight.

When the morning finally did arrive, the valley felt noticeably different The black ants had totally disappeared, and so had the sun, lost behind a thick layer of grey cloud.

Of course, our hopes had been falsely raised by the sight of clouds on many a frustrating occasion over the long drought. But when a distant clap of thunder rolled down from the high ridges, the long suffering locals suddenly took heart. The wedgetails soared off up into the gathering greyness for a closer inspection and the wallabies stayed out on the cool valley floor, looking this way and that as if something was coming.

The fruit eating birds began to gather hopefully in the old strangler fig and discussed better times while the humans went off to collect things and store them in the shed. There was the usual array of gardening tools scattered around a dozen far flung unfinished jobs. There was the canvas chairs under the white mulberry and the the chain saw at the wood heap. And as they wandered shiftlessly here and there the humans also found an assortment of tools, which included a series of lost hammers that had been carefully left where they had last been used for odd jobs. These included such vital tasks as cracking open macadamia nuts, fixing the dunny door and reshaping the garbage bin that had accidentally been backed over in the night. Meanwhile the thunder grew closer and those of us old enough to remember the last time it had rained went off quietly on a personal tour of inspection. Old Matey the rock wallaby perched himself on a high cliff, no doubt remembering the sound of water racing through the narrow gorge. The goanna went for a long inspection along the creek in case anything had recently died of starvation and needed to be removed before the water began to flow.

I also went down to the creek and looked thoughtfully at the pump. It was now sitting at its lowest position ever, having been moved further down the bank many times as the creek dried up. And the suction pipe was a mismatch of odd shapes and sizes of piping that had been cobbled together to try to reach the last stretch of clean water out in the middle of the water hole.

But by now it was getting late in the day and a few heavy raindrops were crashing into the forest. I figured it was unlikely that there would be enough rain to worry the pump over night, so I headed back to the shelter of the verandah and the cheerful sound of the whistling kettle and joyfully settled in to watch the rain come.

And come it did. Great jagged sheets of falling rain blew over the ridges and beat out endless rhythmic patterns on the thirsty forest leaves. Little rivulets of water ran down the trunks of the trees and soaked into the parched soil. Soon the soil had taken all it could and the little rivulets joined force and drawn ever downwards by the force of gravity made their way into folds in the earth, which turned into busy gullies. The gullies filled and the strengthening water finally began to pour into the creeks and waterholes. The air became clean and fresh and all the living things in Secret Gully breathed deeply and welcomed the rain.

Darkness fell early and the humans went to bed and were soon lulled into deep sleep by the hypnotic sound of rain falling on the roof. The frogs appeared out of nowhere and invented a new night symphony. It had been months since they had been seen, but now their enchanting lines of melody once again echoed across the valley, only to be picked up and flung back with ever changing harmony and counterpoint.

Meanwhile, in the midst of my deep sleep an uneasiness gradually made it’s presence felt. It was a new sound. A rushing, tumbling sound, deep like distant thunder yet busy like a thousand spinning wheels. Oh my God! The creek is rising. It’ll take the bloody pump!
Picture now a half awake human, holding a very dim torch with a nearly flat battery. He peers desperately into the back of the shed trying to locate his forgotten gumboots. These neglected items are now hidden behind all sorts of freshly gathered rakes, spades, shovels, hammers and chairs.

Eventually the incompetent human finds the dusty gumboots and proceeds to try and dislodge a variety of creatures which have taken up residence inside the said objects. These include a lizard, three large huntsman spiders, a wasp nest and at least two red back spiders which are very cross about this disruption to their strange cannibalistic lives.

Eventually the human gains the courage to put his delicate feet into his gumboots and half walking, half sliding, makes his way through blinding rain down the slippery bank of the creek. Imagine his feeling of desperation as his feeble light reveals an angry torrent that is now lapping at his precious pump and tearing away at the half destroyed suction pipe.

At this point it would be wise to move forward a few hours, past the bad language episode as the heavy pump was dragged up the slippery slope, to a happier moment just before dawn, when the tired human being finally falls into bed, secure in the knowledge that all is now well and he can look forward to a few days of quiet reading and indoor activities.

That is, until he is woken at first light by the disturbing sound of two wet and homeless bush rats taking up residence in the house and busily chewing a new doorway through the wall. A group of field mice seem to be moving furniture into the top cupboard and the carpet snake is making its way back into the large clay pot in the bathroom. Outside, a couple of wet rock wallabies are staring in the window hopefully and Billy the bandicoot has set up a granny flat under the water tank.

But the bush is springing back to life and there is enough warm weather left for a new flush of growth in the forest. The residents of Secret Gully are obviously grateful that the drought has broken. However there are a number of issues to do with shelter which need be resolved before things completely settle down. Not least of these is an army of little black ants who appear to be moving their royal residence into the cavity wall behind the sink. Obviously the hollow log was not waterproof.

The little marauders are not averse to a spot of plunder and pillage and seem to have taken the entire contents of the sugar bowl with them. So it looks like the first job on the wet morning will be to stand the sugar bowl in a saucer of water. But you always learn something new from change. And it finally dawned on me why the poor little black ants don’t like wet weather. They can’t swim!