YEMISCH

An Argentine legend comes to life in Glen Hartwell

                   It was Wednesday, the 11^th of March, 2026, and the Acheson-Gray family had just arrived from the U.S.A, bringing their blue Kia Telluride with them, as they set out for a fortnight’s holiday in the countryside outside Glen Hartwell.
         “Dad, you should be driving on the left-hand side of the road,” insisted Charlotte ‘Shar’, fifteen, an attractive redhead with black glasses.
         “No the Orzies should drive on the right-hand side,” insisted Hollister ‘Hol’, forty-four, a tall redheaded man, with a serious beer paunch.
         “Honey, you can’t expect a nation with twenty-seven million people to change the side of the road that they drive upon, just to suit us,” pointed out Harper-Lee ‘Harp’, forty-one, a tall raven-haired woman.
         “Most American states have more people in them than that!”
         “Actually, Dad, only two U.S. states have more than twenty-seven million people,” corrected Amelia ‘Ami’, fourteen, a short raven-haired girl: “Texas with thirty-one point seven million people, and California with thirty-nine point four million people.”
         “Is that so?” asked Harp, sounding impressed: “Isn’t she our little genius?”
         “Our little smartass more like it,” insisted Tobias ‘Tobi’, thirteen, a medium height strawberry-blond boy: “She thinks she knows everything.”
         “Well, she usually does,” pointed out Harp: “She’s Mommy’s little genius.”
         “Actually, I pay attention in class, unlike the other two, read a lot, and research a lot on the internet.”
         “Are you saying we don’t pay attention in class?” demanded Shar.
         “Yes, you sleep most of the time, to make up for staying up till dawn every day nattering to your girlfriends ....”
         “What?” demanded Hol and Harp.
         “Not every day,” said Shar, glaring at her younger sister.
         “And Tobi spends all day at school listening to his MP3 player through headphones, after telling his teacher they were hearing aids.”
         “You little tattletale!” cried Tobi reaching toward Ami to hit her.
         “Mom! Dad!” cried the raven-haired girl.
         “Told you she was a tattletale!” insisted Tobi.
         “Don’t worry, we’ll get her later,” promised Shar.
         “No one in this family is getting anyone else!” insisted Hol.
         “But we will have to talk to you two later about your falling grades,” insisted Harp.
         “In future we will have to check on Charlotte a couple of times a night to make shir that she’s sleeping,” said Hol.
         “Dad, that isn’t necessary,” protested the attractive redhead.
         “Shir is,” insisted Harp: “And we’d better explain to your teacher that you don’t need hearing aids, Tobi.”
         “Tattletale!” cried Tobi and Shar.
         “Am no!” insisted Ami.
         “She was being a good girl,” insisted Hol.
         “That’s the adult name for a tattletale!” insisted Tobi.
         “Shir is!” agreed Shar, before adding: “You should be driving on the left side of the road, Dad!”
         “Remember, honey,” said Harp: “In this country left is right, and right is wrong.”
         “Wouldn’t that also make left wrong?” teased Tobi.
         “Technically he’s right,” agreed Ami, hoping to get back into her brother’s good books: “If left is right, and right is wrong, then by definition, left must also be wrong.”
         “Nice try, tattletale,” said Shar: “But we’re not forgiving you that easily.”
         Reaching Bateman’s Hotel at 127 Lawson Street Glen Hartwell, Hol drove the Kia Telluride around to the car park in the rear.
         “We’re here, kids,” said Harp as they climbed out into the gravel paved car park.
         “Yes, Mom, we realised that when we read the sign out front saying Bateman’s Hotel,” teased Shar.
         “There’s no need to be a smartass,” chastened Hol, as they walked toward the double glass doors.
         Inside they were pleasantly surprised by the teak flooring and plain brick walls of the hotel, with a large blackwood reception desk complete with a laptop computer.
         At the reception counter, they were greeted by the owner Adrian Bateman, a tall bear of a man and his receptionist, Dorsa Finnegan, twenty-eight, a tall redhead with a pleasant Irish lilt.
         “Are you the Acheson-Gray family?” asked Adrian.
         “Shir am,” said Hol, handing over his passport.
         “Sure, it is an honour to be meeting you,” said Dorsa.
         “I’ll just get Augustus to take your bags up,” said Adrian, going to look for his porter.
         
         Over at the Mitchell Street Police Station in Glen Hartwell, there was a near riot going on.
         “No way am I getting stuck out in that pokey little hole all day,” insisted Suzette Cummings, a short raven-haired teenager: “I’m claustrophobic for one thing.”
         “Strange that you’ve never mentioned that before, Shorty,” teased Sheila Bennett, a tall athletic Goth chick with orange-and-black striped shoulder-length hair; the Chief Constable of the local area.
         “I forgot it until being stuck out at Morcambe Street,” insisted Suzette.
         “Strange how every one of you forgot to mention that you were claustrophobic until spending time out in Lenoak,” teased Colin Klein. A tall fifty-year-old, redheaded Englishman, Colin was married to Terri.
         “Well, we are!” insisted half a dozen angry police officers.
         “It can’t be too bad out there,” insisted Terri Klein, a tall beautiful ash blonde in her late thirties, and Senior Sergeant of the area: “Hilly actually volunteered to be posted there six days a week.”
         “Don’t get them angry at me, Chief,” pleaded Hilly Hindmarsh, a tall, Nordic blonde aged fifty-eight.
         “Look, you only have to each spend one day a week out there,” explained Terri: “I’ve got a temporary rota made up with Suzette on Mondays, Don Esk Tuesdays, Stanlee Dempsey Wednesdays, Jessie Baker on Thursdays, Wendy Pearson on Fridays, and Alice Walker on Saturdays.”
         “I can’t go out there on Saturdays,” protested Alice, a tall Amazonian body builder: “That’s my day at the Muscle-Up Gym.”
         “You can go another day,” suggested Terri.
         “But all my mates, Sheila, Chezza, Derek, Marsha go on Saturdays; I don’t want to be there any other day.”
         “All right,” said Terri with a heavy sigh, “you can go on Fridays, and Wendy on Saturdays.”
         “That sounds fair to me,” said Sheila.
         “It would, you’re not on the rota!” pointed out Suzette.
         As the commotion continued, Terri cried out, “Settle down, it’s only a provisional rota, come to me one at a time to tell me why you can’t be there on a particular day, and I’ll try to make everyone happy.”
         “Fat chance,” said Suzette, refusing to be placated.
         “How come Sheila and Colin aren’t on the rota/” demanded Wendy.
         “I’m Tezza’s designated driver,” insisted Sheila: “She wouldn’t feel comfortable with anyone else driving her.”
         “Designated bollocks!” said Suzette: “So why doesn’t Colin have to take a turn out at Morcambe Street?”
         “He’s my special advisor for sciencey stuff. Don’t forget he was a big name London reporter for thirty years before coming to Glen Hartwell a couple of years back.”
         “I’m the local tech genius,” protested Suzette, “I could get you all that stuff from the internet, in less time than it takes Colin to remember it.”
         “Colin is employed as my special advisor.”
         “Plus he’s your husband!” pointed out Alice Walker.
         “Yes, Alice, I haven’t forgotten that Colin is my hubby.”
         “Nepotism, that’s what it is!” cried Wendy Pearson.
         Deciding she’d had enough, Terri signalled for Colin and Sheila to follow her out into Mitchell Street.
         As they climbed into Terri’s police white Jeep Cherokee, Terri said, “It wasn’t so bad for the six years we were out at Morcambe Street, was it Sheils?”
         “Yes,” said the Goth chick: “Not that we spent much time out there. Most days we’d sneak around to Mitchell Street to talk, and drink cuppas with bikkies with Danny Ross and Terrie Blewett.”
         “Oh, that’s right,” remembered Terri: “Being attractive young women, they never ordered us back to our own station.”
         “Let me say it for the eleventy-hundredth time, what you two get away with being so far away from Melbourne.”
         “Well if you mean are silly enough to let us chicks get away with stuff, we’re smart enough to get away with it,” insisted Terri.
         
         After lunch the Acheson-Grays set out for a day walking through the forest outside Glen Hartwell.
         “Dad, why couldn’t we take the car?” complained Shar.
         “We’re only going for a short work, honey,” assured Harp.
         “I’m already exhausted,” moaned Tobi.
         “We’ve only walked a hundred yards or so,” pointed out Hol as they crunch-crunched along upon the sweet smelling pine needles and gum leaves which carpeted the forest floor.
         “In this country they have metres, not yards,” said Ami.
         “Thank you, brainiac,” teased Shar.
         “Please tell us she was adopted,” pleaded Tobi.
         “No she was not adopted,” said Harp.
         “No, she’s ours,” teased Hol: “It’s you two who were adopted.”
         ”What?” cried Shar and Tobi.
         Then Hol and Harp gave it away by laughing.
         “Old folks humour,” said Shar with a sigh: “Who needs it?”
         “Hey, we’re only in our early forties, enough of that old folks stuff,” chided Harp.
         “Yeah, if sixty is the new forty as they say; that makes us the new twenty,” claimed Hol.
         “In which case we must be the new, not born yet,” teased Shar.
         “If only,” agreed Ami.
         “What was that, Squirt!” demanded Tobi.
         “Yeah, you’re cruising for a bruising, kid,” said Shar.
         “There will be no bruising of siblings in this family!” insisted Hollister.
         “But Dad, she needs a good beating,” cried Shar.
         “Repeatedly,” added Tobi.
         “There will be no beating up siblings in this family!” insisted Harp.
         “But we can kick her around a bit?’ teased Shar.
         “No!” cried both parents.
         “Remember I’m the natural one; you two were adopted,” teased Ami.
         “Were not!” cried Shar and Tobi.
         “Settle down kids, we’re almost there,” said Hol.
         “Almost where?” asked Shar.
         “I thought we were just going for a short walk?” asked Tobi.
         “No, we’re headed for a day’s fishing and swimming at the local creek,” said Hollister.
         “I think they said it was a river,” corrected Harper-Lee.
         “The Yannan River,” explained Ami.
         “Now she’s cheeking you two also,” said Shar.
         Reaching into the large carry bag he had brought with him, Hol took out the pieces to assemble a top of the range fishing rod.
         “Dad, you actually brought your fishing rod from America with you?” asked Shar.
         “Why not?” asked Harp: “I’m sure they fish on the same side of the river as we do in the States.”
          “You know they have what they call fish and chip shops here in Australia,” said Shar: “You can buy fish already battered and fried with chips.”
         “Which is the Aussie name for French Fries,” added Tobi.
         “Actually chips are shorted but fatter than fries, and Aussies swear they are much tastier,” pointed out Ami.
         “Can’t we say anything without her correcting us?” asked Shar.
         “Perhaps if you checked your facts on the internet you wouldn’t make so many mistakes, and wouldn’t need to be corrected all the time,” said Ami.
         “That’s it I’m clonking her!” cried Tobi.
         “There will be no clonking of sisters in this family,” insisted Harper.
         “What are we supposed to do while Dad is fishing?” asked Shar.
         “I’m planning to read my magazines,” said Harp: “You three could go in swimming.”
         “We didn’t bring our bathers,” pointed out Shar.
         “That’s okay, I’m happy to skinny dip, if you two girls are?” teased Tobi.
         “No way!” cried Shar and Ami.
         “I brought your bathers with me,” said Harp, taking them iout of our carryall.
         “How are we supposed to change without being seen?” asked Ami.
         “Go behind the trees,” said Hol: “There are plenty to choose from. Just try to keep quiet while I’m fishing.”
         “Changing behind trees, like hillbillies,” complained Shar.
         She and Ami went behind one huge blue gum, making certain that Tobi went behind a different tree.
         “Go a little further down the river, so you don’t frighten away the fish,” said Hol when the three teens returned.
         “Jawohl mein Führer!” said Shar, doing the Nazi salute.
         “And try not to splash around too much.”
         “Who wants a splashing around contest?” teased Tobi.
         “Me!” cried Shar and Tobi.
         “Can we at least drown Tattletale while we’re in swimming?” called Shar.
         “No!” cried Harp and Hol.
         Doing their best to make as big a splash as possible, Tobi and Shar dived in head first, while Ami tentatively stepped in slowly.
         “Brrr the water’s cold,” said Ami, shivering.
         “Then get out and help Mom read her zines,” teased Shar.
         “You know I only read science magazines, not women’s zines.”
         “Nerd girl!” said Tobi.
         “Nerd girl! Nerd girl!” chanted Shar.
         “You’re just jealous because I’m the smart one in the family.”
         “That by definition makes you a nerd girl,” pointed out Tobi.
         “Nerd girl! Nerd girl!” chanted Shar again.
         “You won’t be saying that when I’m a tech zillionairess.”
         “Is zillionairess even a word?” teased Tobi.
         “Nerd girl! Nerd girl!” chanted Shar.
         “That’s it, I’m getting out.”
         Walking across to her mother, who was sitting upon the forest floor reading, Ami asked, “Mom, can I have my mobile phone?”
         “What for?”
         “To ring some of my friends?”
         “What friends?”
         “Shasta and LaShawna.”
         “Back in Des Moines, you mean?”
         “Natch, they didn’t come with us.”
         “Do you have any idea how much it costs to ring from Australia to America?”
         “No, Dad always pays my phone account.”
         “Not when you want to ring ten thousand miles from the Southern Hemisphere to the Northern Hemisphere.”
         “Sixteen thousand kilometres, as they say in this country.”
         “Tobi and Charlotte are right, you can be irritating when you always correct us.”
         
         “Okay, now nerd girl has gone let’s splash about some more,” suggested Shar.
         “Good idea, Sis,” said Tobi, turning to splash about.
         Then a great splashing came from behind them, startling the two teens.
         “Was that you?” asked Tobi turning to look back.
         Behind Shar, he saw what looked like a huge, spotted wild cat swimming toward them.
         “Look out, Sis, a jagwah,” cried Tobi, heading toward the shore.
         “A jagwah?” repeated Shar: “Even I know they don’t have Jagwahs in Australia.”
         Turning to look she saw a huge series of serpentine coils weaving seemingly endlessly through the water toward her.
         “Jagwah, nothing, it’s the Ogopogo!”
         So saying, she leapt out of the water and raced across to where her mother and siblings were.
         “It’s the Ogopogo!” cried Charlotte.
         She pointed back to where the giant reptilian form could be seen still coiling through the water toward where Hollister was sitting fishing.
         “Hollister get away from the river!” shouted Harper-Lee.
         “Dad, run to us!” cried Charlotte.
         “Dad!” cried Ami and Tobi.
         “Quieten down, you’re scaring off the ...” began Hol, stopping to stare in horror at the massive serpentine figure, with the front end and head of a jaguar.
         Dropping his expensive fishing line, Hollister tried to climb to his feet, too slowly as the Yemisch leapt upon him.
         The jaguar-serpent amalgamation grabbed him in its coils and twisted them tighter and tighter around Hollister.
         “The Ogopogo got Dad!” said Charlotte starting to weep.
         “No, a jagwah!” insisted Amelia, also starting to sob.
         After a moment, satisfied that Hol was dead, still holding the corpse in its coils, the Yemisch coiled across the dried pine needles and gum leaves toward Tobias and the Acheson-Gray females.
         Screaming in terror, Charlotte and Amelia turned and raced off into the forest in the general direction where they hoped Bateman’s Hotel was.
         “Get away from her!” cried Tobias, foolishly trying to protect his mother.
         “Tobi, no!” cried Harper-Lee.
         Seeing the two crouching, the Yemisch let out a jaguar like roar, a low, deep roar, sounding more like a revving chainsaw than a lion’s roar.
         “Get away ....” began Tobi.
         The Yemisch grabbed him in its jaguar jaws, shook him from side to side for a few seconds, until there was a loud snapping as it broke the teenager’s neck.
         Dropping the dead teen, the creature raced across to grab Harp in its coils, crushing her to death even as it reversed direction to start looping its way back toward the cool waters of the Yannan River.
         
         “Who fancies heading back to Mitchell Street for some of Mrs. M.’s divine treats and cuppas?” asked Sheila Bennett.
         “Sounds good to me,” agreed Colin.
         “Yes, we mustn’t be late for morning tea or the natives will get restless,” said Terri: “We did promise them that Sheils would take Mrs. M. out to Morcambe Street with her treats as compensation for being stuck out there.”
         “So what do you reckon are the chances that the natives have settled down while we’ve been out patrolling?” asked the Goth policewoman.
         “Somewhere between Buckley’s and Nunn as we say in Victoria,” admitted Terri.
         They were just pulling up outside the Mitchell Street Police Station, when Terri’s mobile phone shrilled.
         “I don’t know whether to be dismayed or relieved at it ringing now, with a lynching mob waiting for us inside,” teased Sheila.
         “That was Adrian Bateman over at Bateman’s Hotel in Lawson Street,’ said Terri after disconnecting: “He says two American tourists Charlotte and Amelia Acheson-Gray have just come running into the hotel exhausted, claiming their parents and brother were killed at the Yannan River.”
         “Who or what by?” asked Colin as Sheila started the Jeep again.
         “Amelia says by a Jagwah, which I take it is the American name for a jaguar.”
         “Actually Jagwah is the correct pronunciation, honey,” said Colin.
         “You really enjoy sleeping on the bedroom floor, do you, honey?” teased Terri.
         “I’m getting used to it by now,” teased back Colin.
         “Anyway, Charlotte, the older girl says they were killed by an Ogopogo, whatever that is?”
         “It’s one of a number of Canadian lake monster legends,” explained Colin: “There’s also the Igopogo and the Manipogo or Winnipogo.”
         “So the Canadians like their legends to have pogo in their name?” asked Sheila as they pulled up around the rear of Bateman’s Hotel.
         “Only the lake monsters,” said Colin as they climbed out of the Jeep to find two ambulances already waiting to take the two girls to hospital.
         Terri and company interviewed the two hysterical teens as best they could for a few minutes, with Sheila recording it on her phone, before allowing the paramedics to take the girls to hospital.
         Stepping back into the gravel paved car park, Terri pointed toward the forest beyond, saying, “As best as the girls could tell us they walked straight that way.”
         “I think we can take the Jeep that way,” said Sheila as they climbed back in: “They trees are fairly wide apart.”
         They were perhaps halfway to the Yannan River when Terri’s phone rang to tell them that an Air Ambulance Helicopter had discovered the corpse of Tobias Acheson-Gray, and to give them the GPS coordinates.
         Half an hour or so after leaving Bateman’s Hotel, the white Jeep Cherokee pulled up where the air ambulance chopper was already waiting. Sheila took the death scene photos then the chopper took off with Tobias’s corpse.
         Looking about, Sheila pointed to deep looping indentations leading from the river to the death site and back again:
         “Well, those seem to support the notion of a sea serpent of some kind.”
         “Looks like we’ll need the Yellow Peril and the Harpertown Diving Club again,” said Terri.
         “Whacko the diddly-oh,” said Sheila: “I haven’t seen Orville or Harrison in weeks.”
         
         It was nearly ten PM andthe Evergreen Brothers were seated on the banks of the Yannan River outside Briarwood where they lived. They were seated upon a Fremantle Dockers Football Club purple and white throw rug, while drinking their favourite brews, getting ready (a.k.a. drunk enough) to start their special brand of night fishing.
         “Ah, there’s nothing like a Bud,” said Tyler ‘Ty’, thirty-nine, a short, dark-haired with a pot belly, reaching for a bottle of Budweiser Lager.
         “Ah, that’s a schoolgirl’s beer, five percent alcohol!” disagreed Skyler ‘Sky’, thirty-seven, a short, raven-haired man running to fat: “Give me a man’s beer, Melbourne Bitter with eight percent alcohol by volume.”
         “Ah, Foster’s Large Arse, it’s got the flavour,” misquoted Styler ‘Sty’, thirty-four, a tall, blond man, who never gained weight despite being a chronic alcoholic: “You can’t beat a Foster’s Large Arse.”
         “You can’t talk, with your scrawny bum,” insisted Sky.
         “Better a scrawny bum, than a big fat wobbly bum like yours.”
         “My bum might be big and fat; but it’s certainly not wobbly.”
         “Actually, he’s got you there, bro,” said Ty, “you certainly do have a big fat wobbly bum.”
         “Do not!” protested Sky, before taking a long slug of beer: “Ah you can’t beat Melbourne Bitter.”
         “Rubbish,” said Ty before taking a long slug also: “You can’t beat Budweiser, the Yanks sure know how to make a great beer.”
         “Not as good as Foster’s Large Arse,” insisted Sty, before skoaling the best part of half a bottle of beer: “Now that’s a bloody good beer.”
         The three brothers continued to drink and talk bullshit until nearly midnight, when they decided that they were drunk enough to start fishing.
         “Who’s got the bait?” asked Ty, staggering to his feet and almost falling flat on his face.
         “In the bait bag, dopey,” said Sky, casually tossing a tatty hessian bag to his older brother.
         “Hokay den,” slurred Ty.
         Reaching into the hessian bag, he took out a single stick of dynamite and some matches. Swaying as he struggled to light the wick, he was finally ready to toss the dynamite into the Yannan River.
         There was a massive explosion, and the three drunks were drenched in water and small fish.
         “Not a bad catch,” said Sky, stopping as a soul-wrenching scream came from a little way down the river.
         “What was that?” asked Sty.
         “Some uppity fish doesn’t like our fishing method,” said Sky.
         Taking a stick of dynamite from the bag, he lit the stick then hurled it in the direct the scream had emanated from.
         This time there was a louder explosion, more water and fish sprayed onto the bank and the hellish scream rang out again, this time sounding closer.
         “Sounds like it’s coming to get us,” said Sty, only half joking.
         “Like I’m afraid of an overgrown sardine,” said Ty.
         Taking another stick he lit it and tossed it toward where the latest scream had come from.
         This time the scream was loud enough to almost deafen the three brothers.
         “Maybe we should get outta here?” suggested Sty.
         “What, you’re afraid because Flipper gets a bit agro,” teased Sky.
         He tossed his second stick toward the screaming creature, and this time as well as the explosion and scream, they heard a strange roiling sound, almost like a great snake slithering toward them.
         “What the hell is it?” asked Ty, also started to get concerned.
         Then the Yemisch appeared, showing it’s Jaguar front first.
         “I didn’t think we had any wild cats in Australia?” asked Sty.
         “You haven’t met my Janice then,” teased Ty.
         “What the fuck is it?” asked Styler noticing the coil after coil of the serpent end of the creature.
         Before anyone could answer, the Yemisch let out its hellish scream again, then raced forward to grab Tyler by the face, shaking the drunkard furiously until a loud snapping of bone signified his neck had broken and the Yemisch dropped him.
         “You murdering monster!” shouted Skyler.
         He raced across to grab the bag of dynamite sticks, however, the monster was faster, moving coil over coil it grabbed the short, raven-haired man, gripping him in its lethal coils.
         This time the Yemisch shrieked in delight, as it raced across to grab Styler in its jaguar jaws, then looped around to coil its way rapidly back to the deep water of the Yannan River, drowning the two brothers even as it looped its way through the cool water.
         
         Straight after breakfast the next morning, Terri, Sheila, and Colin headed toward the Yannan River to the spot where Tobias Acheson-Gray’s body had been found. Already waiting for them were the members of the Harpertown Diving Club: Marsha Maudsley a tall Amazonian brunette; David Cadbury a tall, lean, raven-haired man, Helena Menzies, a leggy blonde and her husband Virgil Menzies a tall, lean, redheaded man.
         “Hey, where are Tina and David?” asked Sheila as Marsha came over to hand her her diving equipment.
         “Tina is preggas,” said the brunette, “so they decided to stay away.”
         Sheila had barely finished changing into her wet suit and gear when they heard a whir-whir-whir of rotors overhead. Looking up they saw a massive twin-rotor U.S. Air Force Boeing CH-47 Chinook helicopter, beneath which was suspended a large, bright yellow submarine, the Yellow Peril, around 6 metres in length, 3.5 metres in width, and 2.5 metres in height.
         When the sub finally hit the water, a tall, grey-haired man in his mid-fifties climbed down a rope ladder from the Chinook.
         “Orville,” said Sheila, flippering across to shake hands with Professor Orville Trevane.
         “So who’s coming with me in the sub this time?’ asked Orville.
         “David, Helena, and Virgil,” suggested Sheila: “I feel like a nice refreshing swim.”
         “Well, make certain you have plenty of spears and have an incendiary device attached to the tip of each spear,” said Terri.
         “Yes, Mummy,” teased Sheila as they set out into the river.
         “Be sure to hold onto the outside of the Yellow Peril until we see the creature,” suggested Orville: “Assuming that we do.”
         “I hope we do,” said Sheila: “I can’t wait to splatter it with the incendiary spears.”
         “So what do we do now, babe?” asked Colin after the swimmers had gone.
         “We could always sneak back to the Yellow House for some naughties,” teased Terri.
         “That sounds ....” began Colin, stopping as Terri’s mobile phone rang.
         Terri spoke for a minute or so, then disconnected and said, “That was Janice Evergreen, it seems her drunkard husband and his equally drunken brothers didn’t return from a fishing and drinking trip last night.”
         “Fortunately the Evergreen brothers always drink and fish at the same spot,” said Colin as they returned to the Jeep.
         Half an hour or so later they were at the spot where the brothers fished on the banks of the Yannan River outside Briarwood.
         “Well, looky here,” said Colin, pointing to the piles of beer bottles, both empties and full ones.
         “It’s not like the Evergreen sots to leave full bottles behind,” said Terri.
         She walked across to the hessian bag a lifted out a stick of dynamite.
         “Looks like the Evergreens have been using their favourite bait again,” said Colin.
         “I have warned them about that many times!” cried Terri: “This time they’re going to gaol for forty-eight hours ... assuming we find them.”
         “Only forty-eight hours?” asked Colin.
         “Would you like to look after those drunkards for more than two days?”
         “Good point, well made, babe.”
         
         Sheila and the others moved upstream toward New South Wales for nearly two hours, having had to change air tanks once, before catching sight of the huge serpentine tail of the Yemisch.
         Not waiting for the others, Sheila fired off a spear which detonated on impact with the creature.
         Unharmed, but angry, the Yemisch looked back and roared its Hellish roar at the Goth chick, creating a small whirlpool which sent Sheila and Marsha backwards three or four metres and even rocked the Yellow Peril.
         As the other divers exited the four-person sub, Marsha and Sheila began firing spear after spear at the Yemisch. Each time a spear detonated against the creature, it roared its almost lethal roar, creating a mini whirlpool, but showed no sign of being harm by the explosions.
         Soon Virgil, David, and Helena were also firing explosive charges at the creature, hitting it perhaps fifteen or more times. Each time it roared its Hellish roaring, creating a whirlpool sending the divers floating backwards, but remained unharmed.
         Finally, tired of the confrontation, the Yemisch turned away from the divers and the sub and swam away in a coiling serpentine manner.
         When Sheila made to swim after it, David Cadbury stopped her and pointed up to the surface.
         Up on the banks of the Yannan River, David said, “The bloody explosives don’t seem to hurt it, so there’s no point following after it.”
         “So what now?” asked Orville Trevane.
         “Now, we report to Terri,” said Sheila.
         She unzipped her wetsuit to take out her mobile phone and was soon talking to Terri. Finally hanging up, she said:
         “It looks like the drunken Evergreen brothers might be the creature’s next victim. We’d better ring Harrison to come collect us to take us to Briarwood.”
         Not quite an hour later Sheila and the divers and the Yellow Peril were all with Terri and Colin.
         “The explosives were useless against it?” asked Terri.
         “They pissed it off, that’s all,” said Sheila.
         “If only we had some pictures of it,” said Colin.
         “I snapped some off in the Yellow Peril,” said Orville.
         Returning to the sub, he printed out colour pictures of the creature and returned to show them to Colin and Terri.
         “I think I know what it is,” said Colin: “A Yemisch (a.k.a. Iemisch or ‘water tiger’).”
         “Yemisch, is that a Jewish legend?” asked Terri.
         “No, it’s is a semi-aquatic cryptid from Patagonian folklore, often described as an aggressive, jaguar-serpent hybrid. Myths claim it has a body impenetrable to spears or bullets, and a soul-wrenching scream.
         “The Yemisch first appeared in an 1890s paper by Argentine palaeontologist Florentino Ameghino, who claimed the creature was a living remnant of the prehistoric Neomylodon.
         “According to native Tehuelche and Spanish colonial folklore, it was part feline, part serpent, featuring a short head, large fangs, and a prehensile tail.”
         “That sounds like our bebe,” said Sheila: “It’s skin is impenetrable to bullets, spears and small explosives, but I wonder how it would stand up to the bazooka?”
         “One problem,” said Colin: “You can’t fire the bazooka under water.”
         “Oh, yeah,” said Sheila. Turning to Orville Trevane, she asked, “I don’t suppose the Yellow Peril can fire torpedoes.”
         “Strangely enough, when looking for a mini sub for scientific purposes, it never occurred to me to ask for one that could fire torpedoes.”
         “Well, that was remiss of you,” teased the Goth chick.
         
         Baz Downing and his kids were walking their sheep across to a large watering hole on their station outside Bromby Township.
         Beside them ran their three kelpie sheep dogs Bluey, Blacky, and Tan, all named for their colours. From time to time one of the sheep would go wandering and Baz would call:
         “Geddem back,” and one of the Kelpies would race across barking to frighten the wayward sheep back into line.
         “Good dog, Tan,” said Basil ‘Baz’, forty-two, a tall balding man wearing dungarees and leather work boots.
         “Bring her back into line,” called Beryl, twenty-two, a tall athletic blonde dressed like her father.
         Blacky ran to obey and soon had the wandering sheep back in line.
         “Good boy, Blacky,” called Link, nineteen, a tall, lean but strong raven-haired man wearing dungarees and work boots.
         “You really should be dressed like us, girl,’ said Baz to his youngest daughter: “You’ll get your fancy duds messed up.”
         Sighing from frustration, Farrah, sixteen, a short beautiful girl with long blonde hair; wearing a colourful frock and running shoes said:
         “I would rather die than be seen in apparel like that.”
         “Apparel?” teased Link: “Who do you think you are, country girl.”
         “Don’t call me that, I am a city girl, who had the misfortune to be born in the countryside.”
         “You’ll have to wear dungarees and work boots when you get married,” said Baz: “Your hubby will expect you to work around the farm.”
         “No way am I marrying a farmer! As soon as I leave school in two years I’m going to Melbourne or Sydney to find myself a billionaire to marry, so I’ll never have to work again.”
         “Good luck with that, Sis,” teased Beryl.
         “All right, enough arguing, let’s geddem over to the waterhole,” said Baz: “Bluey, Blacky, Tan, geddem across to the waterhole.”
         “Normally they race across to have a drink,” said Beryl, staring at the hesitant sheep.
         “Ged across there, you woolly morons!” ordered Link.
         “Shoo, shoo,” said Farrah, waving at them with both hands as though shooing away flies.
         “You’d better find yourself a billionaire to marry, girl,” teased Beryl: “You’re not much good at farm work.”
         “Come on you great idiots,” said Baz.
         He picked up one of the sheep, which kicked wildly in distress, walked across to the waterhole and hurled the sheep far into the hole.
         Bleating in terror, the sheep started swimming back to shore, only to be grabbed in the jaguar-like jaws of the Yemisch as it suddenly swept up from the bottom of the waterhole.
         “Holy shit!” cried Baz.
         Baz, Beryl, and Link all swung up the double-barrelled shotguns that they always carried and fired at the jaguar-serpent cross, killing the sheep, but failing to hurt the monster, which dropped the sheep to roar it’s almost soul-destroying roar at them.
         Then, ignoring the farmers, it went back to eating the dead sheep as the other sheep scattered back toward the farm, followed by the Kelpie dogs, and Farrah, who now regretted her choice not to carry a shotgun as the rest of her family always did.
         “Steal our sheep will you,” said Baz.
         The three farm folk fired shot after shot at the Yemisch without hurting it, although it dropped the sheep again to roar at them.
         
         “So,” said Sheila, having changed out of her wetsuit, “we need to catch this Yemisch thing on dry land so I can kill it with the bazooka.”
         At that moment Terri’s phone rang. She listened for a moment, then said:
         “That was Farrah Downing, the Yemisch is in their watering hole.”
         “Damn, and we don’t have the bazooka,” said Sheila.
         “Actually, we do,” said Colin: “The bazooka and a dozen shells are in the boot of the Jeep.”
         “Since when?”
         “Since about a month ago,” said Terri as they climbed into the Jeep: “Since you spend most of your spare time hunting around the Mitchell Street Station for it, we decided to be sneaky and hide it outside the station.”
         “That is so mean!” cried the Goth chick, starting the Jeep to race toward Bromby township.
         
         “The bloody thing seems to be bulletproof,” Link stated the obvious, after they had fired dozens of rounds into the creature.
         “So what do we do now?” asked Beryl, looking around at the sound of a car racing toward them from the forest.
         “Stand back and let us have a go at it,” said Colin as they alighted from the Jeep.
         He raced around to the rear of the car to heft out a box of a dozen shells, as Sheila grabbed the bazooka.
         “The damn thing seems to be bulletproof,” said Baz as the Yemisch roared at them again.
         “I bet it’s not bazooka proof,” said Sheila.
         She grabbed a shell from Colin, slammed it into the rear of the bazooka and then raced across to the waterhole as the Downings wisely raced out of range.
         “Come and get it!” cried Sheila, firing the first shell, which went metres over the creature’s head.
         “Aim lower, Sheils,” cried Terri.
         “I worked that out Tezza,” said Sheila firing the second shell.
         The shell struck the creature upon its impenetrable hide, making the creature roar its Hellish roar at them, but without hurting it.
         “Uh-oh,” said Colin as he handed Sheila the third shell.
         “Third time lucky,” said Sheila.
         As the Yemisch roared at them again, Sheila took careful aim and fired the shell straight into its mouth.
         There was a massive explosion and the creature’s jaguar-head shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces and long hanging threads of flesh and blood.
         “Yatzi!” cried Sheila holding the bazooka above her head in triumph.
         “Now we just need a new place to hide the bazooka,” teased Terri, making everyone laugh.
         

         THE END

         © Copyright 2026 Philip Roberts

         Melbourne, Victoria, Australia