This is the road to Mount Yebby between the trees. That evening I went
to a different kind of meeting. Listen to the birds singing, full,
full, fearful, full, whistling, sun setting birds getting ready retreating.
It's easy to forget all the rest birds hear me. But they're busy,
plus bosses, chasey. The air is lays buggy, and I'm hungry,
so they must be. The trees and the top paddocks surround me an enclave.
Too late, I see a trap. The pine trees by the gate,
their cones, grenades, wet leaves, Heady, Bossy is ahead of
me, Sniffy. The birds are silent momentarily. Only the apostle birds,
my former bullies before I got boss stick around to see. They hop on
and off the pine trees, heavy branches, knocking back the cones, looking
for someone to laugh at. I say it's not me, and I point
to Bossy, him and which army. One of the apostles say, intimidating
though they may be, I had my rear admiralty. Apostles, you have
no power. Get thee behind me. They flew higher up the pine tree.
Where is your messiah? Now? I yelled at the clouds. Where
is your JC This tree, This tree is your so called we, your
so called us Pinus, the genus this tree is ISRAELI like your names,
like your story, But like the Nagerie, change their story when they witness
the glory of the transit of Venus, as noted in Tindale's releases, change
is coming. Nephews and niece's boss barks, Hallelujah. Maybe I am taking
it a bit far. We laugh. This isn't Mississippi or Alabama. It's
Australia, bark, says BOSSI. Yeah. The olives like Elvis Costello's Oliver's
Army, a wall of khaki arriving punk hair stylings that lets the wind in,
helps the olives growing, according to them that know these things. But
as I'm walking, I'm noticing behind the punk facade, these souls aren't at
heart. Behind the scenes, they're regular teens, most of them, a
few hardened veterans at the property's edge, gnarlier than the rest, all of
them preparing. They stand to attention, though at my passing relaxing again in
my rear vision, Bossy runs between them and they break to pat him.
Bossy humanizes me. A human is what a leader needs to be. Usually,
I leave that to Philby here's the human face of the family, even
to Dommie and Charlie. They leave me with Boss Billy and my so called
trees, otherwise only speaking to me hexturely. It's culturally how it's done millennially,
they tell me. As for the people locally, I do what me
and Billy say. I squirm away, live to die another day. Don't
waste what we've been given by fate, all those human things in a fight,
That's what the olive trees are for, right, Not philosopher kings.
My generals act sheepishly. We didn't know this, they say. We didn't
agree with another hierarchy, even if it is plato Ish. What's the difference.
Philosopher kings are just your offspring. That's a military, very dictatorship.
My offspring will be the heads of their families. That is all free,
same as the birds and the bees, same as the rest of this great
country. But they will be philosopher kings. If their parents leave them with
me, there won't be a so called military. I'm fighting, so there
doesn't have to be. You found volunteers hopefully fighters who are ready martyrs for
our cause. Each general, one by one reports ghost scums, mostly families
living roadside with one member one branch. They're ready to give to sacrifice.
Two exceptions Generals number four and five, whose conscriptions are different. Trust worthy,
They assure me we have do? They say? We have none of
our own kind left up that way on that part of the hyacin trail.
And what of your rogue olive tree? I asked General number five the same,
And he's from here originally here, I scream this farm. I mean,
were you about to say? Sir? No, sir, ma'am ma'am,
sir. I'll leave General number five alone with his stutter. And General
number four I turned to your spy on the hyacinth. Does it so happen
that he's related to this guy? I kick some stones at the fresh grave
site. It's a she, ma'am, And she might have been if the
wind had turned. She was his girl, not exclusively, though, was
she. I'm just saying player was straying, but I lost. Romance is
as much a reason as any other to be a good Australian. Now let
the fighting begin, the blood letting, and just then the Hallett wind kicked
in and you could see the seeds flying to General number four as Lonely Pine
on the trail behind Mount Brian