Delusional?

He sensed trouble from the outset. Their presence was invasive despite the fact they were pitching tents on the opposite side of the river. Tent pegs were bashed into fertile alluvial soil, men shouted unkindly at large boisterous dogs, beer bottles were opened way too early, music began blaring from a speaker. A pair of hawks circled above, oblivious to the desecration of his space. He’d been camped, uninterrupted, on his side of the river for almost six weeks. Surely he’d chalked up some territorial rights?

 Here, the upper Macleay River waltzed gracefully, elegantly.  Downwards it danced to become a more sedate and wide river nearer the coast. Up here, he’d communed with birdsong, river sounds, breezes through she-oaks. He’d feasted on the visual smorgasbord of the Upper Macleay landscape laid out around him. But now intruders had arrived, unbidden, defiling his personal space. Running fingers through a long, unkempt beard, he watched them, summed them up. Perhaps they would leave tomorrow. Perhaps his disquiet was unfounded.

 The single-lane bridge spanning the river a kilometre downstream had heralded their arrival. The reverberation of four large, noisy SUVs crossing loose, wooden planks had assaulted the peace of the morning. Alarmed waterfowls had hurriedly fled the river adjacent to his campsite. While pitching their tents, 200 metres from his campsite, they had acknowledged his presence with a perfunctory wave but there had been no communication. The river afforded a modicum of watery distance and privacy between the noisy interlopers and the nylon walls of his small, modest tent.

 He tried ignoring the Philistines, but in the mid-afternoon, sounds of shattering glass reported across the Macleay. It was followed by raucous belly laughter, further shouting and more broken glass. Lining up their empty beer bottles on the bank of the river, they threw stones at them. There seemed to be an endless supply of targets. And now hazardous broken glass littered the pristine bank. In disgust, he shouted across the river, “Hey, that’s really dangerous. What if the next campers cut their feet? Long way to Kempsey Hospital you know!”

There was momentary silence before a gruff voice boomed a curt reply.

“Arrr piss off ya long haired weirdo! Take a chill pill. Mind yer own bloody business!”

There was a collective round of gut laughter then further taunts inviting him to cross the bridge, come around to their camp, say it to their faces.

He busied himself during the afternoon chopping firewood, building up a fire, readying himself a pot of dhal and sweet potato. Loud music from across the river continued unabated, the volume of laughter and coarse language increased proportionally with the number of beers consumed. He could see perhaps eight or more camp chairs ranged around their large campfire and as the light of day leaked away and darkness consumed them, sparks leapt skywards. Under different circumstances he could have admired the spectacle.

 After a full moon rose, he relieved his bladder. Before crawling into the cocoon of his bedroll, he optimistically shouted across the river imploring the revellers to turn down their music. His appeal was met with raucous laughter, and the volume was ramped up further. He lay awake for hours, head filled with pulsing, angry rap music. Eventually they would fall into drunken stupors he reasoned but in the sleepless early hours of morning he’d had enough. A crowbar had been inserted into a tiny crack in the wall of his tolerance and internal pressure did the rest. He would confront them.

 From the startled viewpoint of the revellers, he didn’t so much approach them, rather than just appear amongst them. There were slurred curses of surprise as they suddenly noticed his form standing inside their circle of camp chairs. A pair of large dogs slunk away, tails between legs.

“Shit, mate! Didn’t hear your footsteps approaching. Whadya want?”

“Glad you asked. Firstly, turn down the music. Then tomorrow… pack up your camp and drive back to Coffs Harbour where you came from.”

The drunks, although antagonised by his demands, were collectively in awe of the temerity of this hirsute spectacle before them. He wore a dun coloured, loose-fitting cassock, and his head was surrounded by an orb of light. Several moths had been attracted to the halo effect around his head. The overall impression was a huge glowing dandelion resting on an oversized potato sack. Momentarily the drunks were rendered speechless.

 In a menacing tone, the alpha male challenged, “Oi, hang about, how’d yer know we came from Coffs Harbour?”

“It’s a talent I’ve always had. Just part of my skill set,” he offered.

Alpha male produced an accentuated beery belch before snarling.

“Hey smartarse. You think you’re Jesus or somethin’ do ya? Ya look like Jesus anyway.”

“No. Not Jesus… just a relative of his.”

There were muted sniggers but others were mostly flailing around in a sea of incomprehension, unsure how to swim themselves back towards sobriety.

“WTF?” alpha male interjected, screwing up his nose in disdain and belching again.

“My ancestors sprang from Jesus’ siblings,” he explained calmly. “Mary and Joseph had more than one child you know. Jesus had brothers and sisters. It’s all in the Bible. My ancestor was James. He learned a lot growing up with his older brother, the Messiah.”

Several of the drunks shuffled backwards in their internal fog. Away from this unhinged hippie rabbiting on about being related to Jesus.

“You’re delusional, mate!” alpha male spat. “Dunno what yer been smokin’ but yer can piss off out of our camp and git yerself back on your side of the river.”

Pointing across the Macleay, he added, “Over there. That’s the designated camping area for weirdos.”

“Well, you’ve been warned. Turn down the music. Pack up and leave tomorrow.”

 The glowing orb atop the cassock turned authoritatively and moved away from the fire. Away from the drunks, across rounded river stones, down to the river’s edge.

Ensuring he had the last word, alpha male retorted, “Wouldn’t swim across there, mate. There’s a rogue platypus in this stretch of the river!”

 Ignoring alpha male’s acid comment, he fixed his eyes firmly in the direction of his tent. A seraphic smile crept across the cheeks hidden within the thatch of his tangled beard.

“Delusional, huh?” he muttered silently.

And girding his loins, he strode confidently across the surface of the river, sandals remaining dry.

Behind him there were utterances of inebriated disbelief. The music ceased immediately and by daylight the campers and their SUVs had departed. Presumably to Coffs Harbour. Possibly to seek counselling.