The Oar That Counted Backwards | Boomerverse Yarn #011

The Original Boomer had left the little wooden oar leaning against the veranda wall overnight. By breakfast, it had moved. Not far. Just enough to make the blade point at his kitchen door. The painted words ONE LEFT were still there. Below them, someone had added a small chalk mark. Boomer squinted through his green rectangular glasses. A single line. “Good,” he said. “Now it's doing arithmetic.” He carried the oar around to the shed and wedged it behind an old lawnmower. A minute later something knocked beneath the boards. Once. The oar fell over. It landed with a clatter, its handle pointing towards the bush track. Boomer considered putting it through the woodchipper. Then remembered he didn't own a woodchipper. “Of course.” He made coffee with bottled water and inspected the newspaper he'd brought back from the impossible boathouse. The headline still read LOCAL MAN STILL HASN'T RETURNED IT, but the photograph of his kitchen had changed. His chair was there. His hat was there. And on the table lay the wooden oar. Boomer glanced at the oar behind the mower. It was still there too. “Well, at least somebody's keeping inventory.” The photo showed another detail. A little square of paper beneath the oar's blade. He held the newspaper close to the light. Three numbers. 8. 1. 7. Before he could decide whether to be irritated, the kitchen clock ticked backwards. Only once. The minute hand returned to its proper place. A faint metallic clink came from the cutlery drawer. Boomer closed the newspaper. “Not opening that.” At midday a knock sounded from the empty ute. One knock. Then silence. He looked through the windscreen. On the passenger seat sat his battered camping compass. It had been locked in a toolbox for months. The needle wasn't pointing north. It pointed at the old creek crossing on the track towards the hills. Boomer watched it. The needle turned west. Then back towards the creek. He sighed. “You could've written a normal address.” He took the compass, left the oar where it lay, and drove to the crossing. The creek was shallow, running clear over dark stones. A collapsed wooden footbridge leaned against one bank, untouched as far as Boomer knew since the previous winter. Except there was a new post. It stood beside the water with an old enamel mug hanging from a hook. Not his mug. The handle was blue, and somebody had painted a white number on its side. TWO. Boomer inspected the ground. No footprints. No tyre marks. Under the mug lay a flat stone engraved with a single word. RETURN. “Return what?” The creek gurgled. The compass needle spun once. A knock came from beneath the bridge. Boomer looked under the planks. Nothing. He pulled the mug off its hook. It was empty, apart from a little folded note. He unfolded it. FIRST WAS NEVER YOURS. He read it again. “Neither was the second, if we're being technical.” Across the water an old kerosene lantern flickered blue. It rested on a tree stump, where no lantern had been a second earlier. The note changed while he held it. SECOND WAS BORROWED. Boomer felt the back of his neck prickle. Behind him the mug tapped its hook, although he was holding it in his hand. Tap. Tap. He looked back. A second mug hung from the post. Same blue handle. Same painted TWO. His own mug had not moved. “Righto. That's cheating.” The lantern went out. For an instant he saw the creek's reflection without the bridge, without the post, and with a small dark figure standing knee-deep in water. The figure was gone before he could make out its shape. He did not chase it. Instead he put the first mug on the ground, kept the paper and walked back towards the ute. From beneath the collapsed bridge came a voice. Not his this time. Low and faint, as if someone were speaking through a closed wooden door. “There's still one.” Boomer stopped. “One what?” The creek kept running. “Hello?” No answer. He went home. At dusk the oar was back on the veranda, despite his leaving it in the shed. The words ONE LEFT had changed. Now it said: ONE NOT RETURNED. The chalk mark had become two. Boomer touched neither. He went inside and checked that his kettle was off. From the kitchen drawer came two soft taps. Then, from beneath the floor, one answering knock. Boomer stared at the boards. “I'm not a bloody lost-property office.” The compass, still on the table, turned slowly until its needle pointed straight down. And underneath the floor, something began to scrape. Not trying to get out. Almost as if it were drawing a line. End of Yarn #011.