Year One - The Monster on the Rock by James Lancaster

His eyes glowed like smouldering coals in the pale darkness, lighting the distant path through the burnt jungle remains that jutted out of the coarse sand. He prowled across the cooling floor of the outback. An old predator, a master of his craft honed over years of practice, his style handed down by generations of forest creatures that mastered the shadows and the trees. They grew strong on the flesh of the earth shaking beasts that roamed the woodlands devouring the lush plants that wore sun-breaking fronds and made a canopy that even the solar flares couldn’t pierce. But the gods gave them no heed any more.  Their world had new masters, masters who knew fire, and the first names.

Long ago he hunted here, reared from the pouch by a scarred and beaten Mother. Her jaws built like massive shears, possessing a bite that split the bones of her enemies with a single slice. Her eyes glowed with warm light in the cold outback nights, her paws tipped with fearsome claws but padded with soft fur. She was the last Marsupial Lion, with the last Marsupial Lion cub

The canopy of his youth now lay broken and tattered, even his claws, sharpened over years of careful tending and whetting, seemed blunt in comparison to force which shredded the canopy so long ago.

He remembered hiding in the cold shadows of the trees, descending upon the unsuspecting prey and cracking their bones with his teeth. He mastered the art of waiting, never making a sound or breaking his concentration. He’d wait hours for his prey, but they’d always appear, and he was never unready.

But hours soon turned into days, and the days into weeks. He clawed at the marrow of rotting carcasses and snatched the crawling forest lizards and burrowing beasts for mere morsels of meat. Stoking the furnace of his stomach to crawl on, forever searching for his massive peers. The sun rising and falling in the blue sky, as the minutes wore by at a glacial place. On his road he still saw old tracks cracked into the cold sand, the Mihirung bird that grazed on the tallest trees, the Diprotodon, the marsupial rhino whose feet crack the trees and snap bones with a single flex of his jaw. Peaceful herbivores made into fierce fortresses against the hardiest predators. But now their tracks lead only to cold bones rising out of the ground like fallen monuments of a conquered race, forever remembered, but never understood.

And even his ancient enemy, the Great Roamer the massive lizard who knew no master. He had not been seen for many years, perhaps he’d found a new land away from here, a land still green where the river carved by the rainbow serpent still flowed. But places like that only lived in the Dreaming, a place beyond hunger and pain.

In the distance, he spied a flickering light, dancing orange on the bush as shadows whipped silently across the rocks and boulders. He crept behind the dry and brittle branches, fascinated, yet fearful of what lay beyond.

Small primates, who spun long spears and hopped from foot to foot, howled a fierce cry at the chilled glow of the moon. Their faces painted with swirls that seemed to echo the stars above, their hair trimmed and shaped. Their bodies hairless and smooth, the foreigners, the ones who came long ago, who rode on floating trees and built tree-branch shelters on the shoreline. The old carnivore kept his distance, for they spoke to the bushfire, the primal force that ripped the forest apart and charred the green beyond repair. They drove away the Mihirung and the Diprotodon, even Great Roamer turned and ran when their war yell sounded. But the Marsupial Lion, he stayed, for fear had long since stopped mattering to him. Hunger ate at his mind, and all he saw was prey.

But the lion stopped.

The Primates pulled one of their cubs off of the ground, it sat and played with a tiny carving. A small, wooden Lion, the cub turned to one of the hunters, asking about the strange form he held in his hand. His father knelt in close, he curled his fingers like claws, and growled, he sat his son back down. The child fidgeted and laughed, his father put a finger to his lips and told him to quiet down, as he prepared to recite the tale. “This is the Coleo, strongest of all, stronger than Great Roamer, stronger than Bunyip, and faster than Mihirung.” He made a playful growl, and his son jumped back. The father laughed as he lifted his son onto his shoulder, and continued his story . His gaze turned to the stars, and his face became as stone as his long stare beheld the stars above. Old memories and stories, half remembered, and his own experiences ran through his head. He turned back to his son and said “He watches from the trees, pouncing on whatever crosses his path, no matter how large or how strong. Do you know why?”

“Why?” The boy asked, wide eyed and breathless.

“Coleo has no fear in him, the Lagunta, who lurks in the bushes and waits to steal his kills, envies him so much. That he wears the same stripes in the hope he will be as bold as the Coleo.” He drew stripes in the sand, and around it a round powerful body and strong legs, and finally. The stern brow and strong jaws of the Coleo took shape. The boy ran his hand over the muzzle in awe, and his father patted him on the head. “But when Lagunta gets too bold, and tries to take from Coleo, well, Coleo puts them in his place. How does he do it?”

“He Roars!” The boy yelled, giving several high pitched screams as the other hunters turned and looked at them. His father picked him up and but him back on his shoulder, as they went to rejoin the dance.

The Lion spied a pack of Lagunta in the distance. Their glowing eyes betraying their position, they understood what was to come. The Lion, reluctantly, also understood. His skin clung to his bones, and even the Lagunta, who circled them as quietly as they could manage, began to covet the legendary boldness of the Coleo. But they remembed the Lions jaws, and kept their distance.

The Lion walked from his hiding place, too tired, too hungry to run. He could only walk after his prey. His muscles heavy on his bones from days of walking without food, his vision blurred with every step. Carelessly, he snapped a branch with his paws, and the humans turned to face him.

Face to face, the dark, muscular form of the Lion paused. He could only stare, and the primates could only stare perplexed. Their legendary predator, the fearless one, standing perfectly still in open, not even running or fighting. The Lagunta gave their atrocious yells and whoops. Crackled and snarling embers twisted in the distance, as the two apex predators only looked at eachother.

There was no way he could win.

He could tear them limb from limb, snap their bones and eat them, maybe in his youth. But here and now, his only weapon was his stare.

He knew the way of the world, all animals have their time, they roam and take apart any challenger, earn their place, and keep earning their territory by taking out any rival. He had done this for years, drunk on his power, until his territory burned to the ground, and he adopted the grassland as his home. He was old, his years of experience told him one thing, his time was done.

Like every rival he’d faced, as the tribe gathered their spears and prepared their attack. The Lion just waited, the Lagunta whooped, and yelled, ready to join the battle. But the Lion waited.

In that moment, he was truly without fear.

The deed had been done, laying on the cold ground, the last Marsupial Lion gave his laboured breaths to sky above, as his glowing eyes flickered like the cold embers of the bonfire. The father sat down, cautiously, he judged the animal that lay before him, it splayed onto the sand limply, its jaws clacking with that same ferocious power. But its eyes simply gazed into the distance, the brawn of the Mihirungs massive predator was only a memory. The Father sat with the east as it died, one animal to the next, the light went from its eyes. Until the only light left was the glow of the bonfire. They took out their knives to carve their kill, as the skin of the greatest predator was passed to his successor.

No one can rule forever, but memories can live unchecked, the tribe would paint the last Marsupial Lion and he remains in the rocks to this day.

One day, this land would once again be taken, and it will be renamed and shaped as it had been done before. When the bones of Coleo lie in museums and halls, this land will be called Australia, and as the years pass. The name will change, and people will pass away to the land where the Lion still roams, but the bones of the Coleo will be dug up again, and the legend will be told by another.