Beneath The Reeds
Special Dispatch from Dusty Gulch
By Roderick Whiskers McNibble, Chief Investigative Correspondent, Ratty News
There are days when even an investigative correspondent needs to take a break.
Dusty Gulch had provided more than its fair share of excitement lately, and I had decided that an hour or two beside the creek might restore what remained of my nerves.
Bushie was already there.
He was sitting beneath an old gum tree, looking out across the water. His horse was grazing nearby, making a reasonable job of removing the grass from an otherwise pleasant patch of riverbank.
Bushie looked comfortable. It was good to see him back on his feet and in the saddle after his unfortunate encounter with his newly adopted horse. I decided not to enquire too closely into the matter. Some relationships, I find, are best allowed to recover in private.
I settled down a little way along the bank.
For a while, neither of us had much to say. The creek moved gently over the stones, the leaves stirred overhead, and the world seemed, for once, to have remembered how to behave itself. Daylight turned into dusk.
Then the platypus surfaced.
It appeared quite suddenly, a little distance from the bank. Its bill broke the surface, followed by its head and rounded back. It paddled across the creek before disappearing beneath the water.
A moment later, it surfaced again.
Then another appeared.
Bushie remained quite at ease. The little creatures came and went, moving about the reeds and along the muddy bank. There was nothing particularly remarkable in his manner. He seemed perfectly accustomed to their company.
I, on the other hand, was fascinated.
I had seen platypuses before, but never quite like this. They seemed to know every root, every shallow and every little passage beneath the bank.
Bushie was home.
I was merely an observer.
The creature closest to me disappeared beneath the reeds. A moment later, something shifted among the roots. I caught sight of a small object tucked into the bank.
Curiosity, as readers of the Ratty News will know, is one of my more troublesome characteristics.
I investigated.
Tucked beneath the reeds was a carefully packed waterproof sack. It wasn't an accumulation of rubbish or somebody's abandoned fishing gear. It had been placed there deliberately, concealed with considerable care.
Inside was a uniform.
Not fancy dress. Not a costume for the annual Dusty Gulch Agricultural Show.
A proper field uniform, carefully folded and maintained. There was a small waterproof kit, some neatly wrapped equipment and a sealed packet of instructions.
There were no medals. No name. No insignia I recognised.
And that, naturally, was when my peaceful afternoon came to an abrupt end.
I looked back towards the creek. Bushie was still sitting quietly. The platypuses continued their business, apparently unconcerned by my discovery.
I had a feeling that I had stumbled upon something rather more interesting than an afternoon's wildlife watching.
An organisation that apparently doesn't exist
I have spent enough time investigating the affairs of Dusty Gulch to recognise when something doesn't quite add up.
The liberation of the sonic rolling pin from Honklander Headquarters had been a considerable undertaking.
Feline Force Five had received the credit, and deservedly so. Missy, Puds, Fugly, Ginger and Mother had carried out their assignment with considerable determination.
But there had been complications.
The underground approaches were treacherous. Water levels had to be monitored. Drainage channels needed to remain clear, and somebody had to ensure that the routes beneath the Honklander stronghold remained accessible.
The official account made very little mention of any of this.
I began to wonder why.
Then I thought about McFookit Peak.
For all the attention given to Trevor's engineering, the WDP system and the remarkable cavern infrastructure beneath the mountain, there was one question nobody seemed to have asked.
Who kept the place dry?
The caverns had drainage channels, watercourses and underground passages that required constant attention. A blocked channel or rising water level could have caused considerable trouble.
Trevor might be a gifted wallaby, but even he couldn't be everywhere at once.
Dracula the Emu might be an accomplished plumber, but I had yet to see him demonstrate any particular enthusiasm for working underwater.
And Dusty McFookit?
Well, Dusty was a plumber. A real one, with a proper understanding of pipes, drainage, blockages and the unfortunate consequences of water going where it shouldn't.
I decided that he might be worth a visit.
A plumber knows his business
Dusty was not particularly surprised by my questions.
That, in itself, was suspicious.
I had barely begun explaining my discovery when he gave me the sort of look a tradesman reserves for someone who has just announced that they have fixed a leaking tap with fencing wire and a generous application of optimism.
It soon became apparent that Dusty knew about the platypus maintenance crew.
He had known for years.
They were not some newly recruited auxiliary service, nor were they a temporary arrangement dreamed up to assist with the latest emergency. They were an established part of the way Dusty Gulch kept its water moving.
Dusty understood plumbing. He knew that a drainage system was only as good as the channels that kept it clear. He also knew that there were places beneath McFookit Peak where no ordinary plumber could easily work.
The platypuses could.
They knew the waterways, the underwater passages, the culverts and the hidden channels. They could investigate blockages, monitor changes in water levels and move through places that would leave most of the town's engineering department reaching for a change of clothes.
Dusty had an arrangement with them.
A quiet one.
No contracts displayed on the municipal noticeboard. No public announcements. No ribbon-cutting ceremonies.
Just a working relationship between a plumber who knew what needed doing and a community of creatures who knew how to do it.
Bushie, I should point out, knew none of this.
He knew the platypuses as friends and neighbours. He belonged to their world beside the creek, but their maintenance activities were quite another matter. He had no idea that the creatures he sat with so comfortably were responsible for keeping a good deal of Dusty Gulch's infrastructure functioning.
I found this rather reassuring.
Bushie had been sitting among the maintenance crew without knowing that they were the maintenance crew.
Dusty knew precisely what they did.
And I, as usual, was the last to find out.
The quiet workforce
It took some time, and a good deal of observation, before I began to understand the full extent of their work.
There appeared to be an entire maintenance service operating beneath the notice of the town.
They knew the waterways. They understood the drainage systems.
They knew the underground passages beneath McFookit Peak and the routes connecting the caverns to the surrounding countryside.
They could move through flooded channels, investigate blockages and identify changes in water levels long before anyone else noticed a problem.
They had been doing this for some considerable time.
And they had played a part in the liberation of the sonic rolling pin.
Not as members of Feline Force Five. Not as a theatrical supporting cast, and certainly not as creatures seeking a share of the glory.
They had undertaken a separate assignment, using their own knowledge and abilities to make the operation possible.
They helped ensure that the routes remained accessible, that the water didn't become an additional enemy and that the infrastructure beneath the mountain continued to function.
When the job was finished, they returned to their waterways.
No speeches. No photographs. No civic reception. Business as usual.
A platypus may look like something assembled by a committee that couldn't agree on what animal to produce, but appearances can be misleading.
Underwater, he is an efficient and rather stealthy hunter. His sensitive bill allows him to detect the electrical signals produced by prey hidden beneath mud and gravel. Insects, larvae, worms and small crustaceans soon discover that this placid-looking creature has a rather serious attitude towards lunch.
The males also carry venomous spurs on their hind legs. They are not generally looking for trouble, but an enemy foolish enough to get too close may find that the little fellow has a distinctly unpleasant surprise in store.
I mention this because it would be unwise to mistake quiet manners for an absence of capability.
The platypuses of Dusty Gulch were not merely good at keeping the water running.
They were quite capable of looking after themselves.
A matter of ordinary life
People want to get on with their lives.
They want to boil the kettle, turn on the lights, have running water, mend a fence, tend their gardens and sit beside a creek for an afternoon without somebody demanding an explanation. They want their homes to be safe and their town to function.
They don't particularly want to be heroes.
Their stories deserve to be told in their own right, with the dignity and historical care they warrant.
I would never presume to compare our little platypuses with those real men and women.
But there is a principle worth recognising.
Some people undertake difficult and dangerous work so that others can live ordinary lives.
And often, when the work is finished, they disappear from view.
The official account
I returned to my notebook and reviewed my findings.
I have reason to believe that the creatures responsible would prefer I kept my whiskers out of their business.
For once, I intend to oblige.
I shall not publish the location of the waterhole. I shall not identify the individuals involved, nor disclose the routes they use.
Some secrets, I have come to realise, are not mine to tell.
The kettle boiled that evening. The water ran. The lights stayed on. The caverns beneath McFookit Peak remained dry, and Prentis Penjani was reportedly seen entering the municipal chambers wearing his best top hat and monocle and carrying a rather expensive cup of coffee.His passport had more stamps than a philatelists album.
Feline Force Five were already looking for their next adventure.
Dusty McFookit returned to his plumbing.
Bushie returned to the creek, still none the wiser about the occupation of his friends.
And somewhere beneath the reeds, a small, web-footed figure resumed the ordinary pattern of the waterways.
The routes were clear. The levels were stable. The official account required nothing further.
And Dusty Gulch carried on.
This is Roderick Whiskers McNibble signing out.
Stay twitchy out there.And always remember to take time to sit by a creek and let life drift by. You never know who or what you may meet.
