The Mystical Wombat's Guide to Life

Part Two: Serendipitous Sid

A ferryman punting slowly across the calm river beneath the motorway bridge was the only witness to the falling figure, arms flailing and Macintosh billowing, as it plummeted without a sound towards the waiting water's shadowy depths. Sid the Old Salt, as he was known in these parts, lifted a quizzical white bushy eyebrow, stopped punting and waited. Leaning his ancient bony frame against the blackened punting pole, his black eyes fixed on the place where the body had been swallowed. Far above him, the aftermath of McBee's desperate act continued, now a distant, indeterminable concoction of smoke and clamour from the water's edge.

* * * *

McBee, meanwhile, was finding the whole experience a lot more comforting than you may imagine. As soon as his feet left the bridge's edge, an overwhelming sense of calm began to pervade his entire being. The cold air rushing up and around his body removed the smell of burning from his nostrils as he continued his dreamlike, slow motion descent. Suddenly he found he had time to think – acres of mind-space unexpectedly available for him to wander through.

He looked across his downward-bound body and noticed, with some amusement, the battered brown suitcase still gripped in his hand. Why on earth did I bring this with me? he wondered, watching the case swinging happily from its handle. It had been a present from his mother, more than twenty years ago, on his very first day at The Oktaban Times.

'You're a professional now,' Mrs McBee had beamed, straightening her son's new tie and standing back to admire the nervous young man before her. 'And professionals should always look the part. Now, let me look at you. There you are - a proper journalist if ever I saw one.'

The thought of his mother brought a sharp, unexpected stab at his heart and McBee screwed up his eyes, focusing instead on the forces pulling his body downwards to numb the pain. Soon, the cool calm returned. He opened his eyes...

Then the water hit him, engulfing his body in dark, inky blackness, icy daggers attacking him from every side. Struggling to break the momentum of his fall, McBee violently jerked his body round until his head was pointing towards the dim light dancing at the river's surface. But as he reached out his arms, his eyes began to fail him as his body began to succumb to the water's freezing numbness. Despite his struggle, the light was now retreating further and further away from his outstretched hand. Inexplicably comforted by a deathly sense of surrender, McBee closed his eyes and gave in.

* * * *

Old Sid watched and waited. Around him the sky was beginning to redden as the autumnal evening set in. Flocks of guillegulls rose noisily from the marshes at the edge of the City, their tiny flapping bodies moving in mesmerising, constantly changing formations, like giant undulating black-speckled waves in the sky. The ferryman had witnessed this spectacle many times, yet even today he still felt a twinge of awe in his aged heart at this natural twilight phenomenon. As he lifted his gaze to watch the birds, he was temporarily transported back to a time, many years ago, bathed in the warm rosy hue that surrounds precious memories. He was a small boy of around eight years old, sitting on the prow of his grandfather's barge with his bare feet dangling over the edge, while his faithful terrier Tujic sat at his side, barking at the birds as they flocked across the blood-orange sky. Just as he had done then, he did now; watching the shapes changing above his head for some time, he noted each metamorphosis out loud:

'...Diamond, square, ripples, oblong, cloud, wobbly blob, another squ...'

Old Sid was suddenly interrupted by a bubbling sound to the left of his boat and, on turning his head to investigate, was amazed to see McBee's body – shortly followed by a battered brown suitcase – emerging from the river. The man was pale and covered in slimy green weed, but definitely – unmistakably – alive.