‘No. Sorry, Jason,’ said Dad, ‘but they mustn’t be disturbed. The mother has a pouch. They are safe in there. Nice and warm with mother’s milk on hand. All you have to do is make sure nothing goes in or out of the entrance to the hutch. Breeze will stay there. There’s food and water inside.’
‘What about me?’ I said. ‘How long will you be gone?’
‘I’ll go and get you something too,’ said Dad. ‘But you mustn’t leave this spot. A rat will be in and out in a flash – they can smell a new birth a mile off. The babies are the first things they eat. A bilby has no defence against rats. I would move Breeze up to the house but I can’t risk disturbing her.’
‘You can count on me, Dad,’ I said. ‘Nothing will make me leave here.’ I grinned up at him from underneath the brim of my Akubra.
Dad nodded. He came back with a bottle of drink and some sandwiches. And a crowbar.
‘What’s that for?’ I asked.
‘If you do see a rat,’ said Dad, ‘you know what to do.’
I shuddered as he leaned the crowbar against the hutch. ‘Okay,’ I said hesitantly.
‘Good man,’ said Dad. ‘I should be back in three or four hours.’
He walked down to the jetty and started the outboard on the little dinghy. The putt-putt of the engine drifted across the water as he headed out to sea. He finally vanished around the headland. For a little while I could still hear the sound of the motor. Then it faded and died.
I was alone.
The ground began to return the heat of the rising sun. The only sound was the occasional buzz of a fly. It’s funny how the bush has different sounds at different times. In the morning and evening the birds are noisy and life fills the forest. In the night there are the sounds of secret hunting and feeding. But in the hot hours all is quiet.
I began to grow drowsy. I took a few mouthfuls of water from the bottle and nibbled at a sandwich. I shook my head, trying to keep myself awake. Time passed slowly. I should have asked Dad for a book. For a moment I thought about racing over to the house and getting one. But I had promised not to leave the hutch. Even for a second.
Then the weather began to change. Clouds covered the sun. A tropical breeze sprang up.
Without any warning a fierce gust of wind swept through the clearing. It snatched my hat and sent it bowling towards the river. My blood turned to ice.
In a second it would be gone. Could I follow it?
Could I not follow it? I would only have to leave my post for a few moments. But those words – leave my post – sounded dreadful. Weren’t soldiers shot for leaving their post?
But this wasn’t war. This was a boy and a hat. Nothing could happen to the bilbies in that short time.
I jumped to my feet and pelted after the hat. It was spinning like a crazy out-of-control wheel on a racing track.
‘Oh, no,’ I gasped.
A gust carried the hat into the air. In no time it was in the water, floating quickly away from the muddy bank.
I jumped in after it. The mud was soft and I sank up to my knees. In a flash I realised the danger. I tried to lift one leg but straight away the other one sank deeper. The mud was foul and squelchy. It sucked at my legs.
My hat was spinning upside down in the water, just out of reach. The word crocodile flashed through my mind.
Panic began to well up in my throat. Then I looked at the hat. My mother’s smiling face appeared in my mind. I threw myself into the water and like a dog digging a hole I began to pull myself forward with my hands. I stretched out and reached for the brim of the hat. With two fingers I managed to just nip the edge. I pulled it gently towards me.
Yes. Got it.
With one muddy hand I jammed the hat on to my head and began crawling towards the shore. I reached the bank and ran panting back to the hutch.
Nothing had changed. Or had it? I looked at the small entrance hole. Were the baby bilbies and the mother safe inside? Had something slipped in while I was away? I listened. All was quiet. Too quiet?
Was there a feral creature in there?
There was only one way to find out. Dad had told me not to look at the bilbies. But I had to know. Were they safe?
I lifted the lid and stared inside.
5
Breeze was dead. Her staring eyes did not see. They were dry and milky. I bent down and gently lifted up the still body. Her fur was sticky. Her little legs felt as if they would break if I tried to bend them. One foot had been chewed.
My head seemed as if it had dropped off and was falling down, down, down into a deep well. This was a nightmare. I had deserted my post and the enemy had crept into the camp.
With trembling fingers I began to search for a pouch. Maybe the bilbies were still alive in there. I turned her over and felt in the fur. No pouch. No pouch. Oh, yes, there it was. Facing backwards. It was torn and bleeding where teeth had ripped at it. I felt gently inside with my fingers. There were little teats. But nothing else. My heart seemed to stop beating. The world grew bleak and cold.
The babies were gone. I knew at once that they had been eaten by the rat. Killed before we could even give them names.
The rat was a murderer. It had scurried off to its stinking nest. And I knew where it was.
Red-hot rage flowed through my veins. I had never experienced anything like it before. My whole face was burning. I opened my mouth and screamed in fury at the sky. The sound filled the forest for a few seconds and then died. My skin was cold but inside I was boiling. Something had taken hold of me. Something inside wanted to explode.
It was hate.
Hate for the filthy skulking piece of vermin that could eat three baby bilbies. The rat’s image scurried, red behind my eyeballs. The whole world seemed red. Even the one patch of long green grass that sprouted like an island in the dry house paddock was the colour of the sun.
I grabbed the crowbar that was still leaning where Dad had left it against the hutch and staggered towards the patch of grass.
It’s funny how something so healthy and strong can grow out of a foul bog. The grass was lush and moist even though it was the dry season.
I hardly noticed the stench. My boots squelched in the brown soil. Somewhere in there was a hole. A home. A hideout for the rat that had killed Breeze. I parted the grass with furious sweeps of the crowbar. Bubbles plopped and released nauseous gases but I hardly noticed. There. Yes, yes. A wet oozing hole. I shoved the end of the crowbar into it and jabbed in and out with furious shouts.
‘Die, die, die,’ I shrieked.
The end of the crowbar struck something hard. Maybe a rock. I started to dig but the crowbar wasn’t wide enough to lift wet soil. I grabbed a large tuft of grass and began to pull. It was firmly lodged but slowly it began to loosen its grasp.
Splop. It came away with a huge ball of soil dripping from the roots.
There. A concrete pipe. I couldn’t see the end but something told me the rat was inside. I struck furiously with the tip of the crowbar. Again and again and again. Small chips and sparks flew into the air. My hands grew red raw and a blister formed on one of my palms.
Chip, chip, chip. I banged and banged and banged. Striking with a fury fuelled by my red-hot hate.
Finally a round crack appeared. Like the lid of a teapot that had been glued in place. I tore at the broken concrete with bleeding fingers.
‘Aagh.’
I fell backwards into the bog. My jeans and shirt soaked up the foul water. I floundered helplessly.
A huge rat had jumped out of the pipe. It was black and fat and squeaking. And even worse it was only a metre away from my face.
It suddenly began to jump straight up and down as if cornered. I was suddenly grabbed by a wave of fear and revulsion. I wanted the rat to run away. But it was protecting something. Its lair meant more to it than its life.
Life is nothing to a rat.
It had eaten Breeze’s babies as if they were no more than scraps of garbage.
The world once again
turned red. I sprang to my feet and began striking crazily at the leaping rodent. It jumped up and sideways. And then forward, baring its teeth like a dog.
Suddenly it grabbed the end of the bar and began to crawl along it. The thought of its claws and teeth and scabby skin made me feel faint. I dropped to a crouching position and holding the bar parallel to the ground thumped it down. There was a small, sickening crack. The rat twitched and lay still.
I stood up and leaned on the bar. I gasped. The breath was raw in my lungs.
I stared down at the dead rat. Its life had gone in a fraction of a second. And in the same moment hate drained from my frenzied head.
I had never killed anything before. Well, maybe a fly and a few spiders. But not a warm-blooded animal. A mammal – even a rat – is more like a person. It has eyes and ears and skin. It holds food in its paws and chews like a human. It has blood inside. And it gives birth and suckles its young.
Suddenly I felt weak all over. I had killed the rat but it didn’t make me feel better. Its dead body reminded me of Breeze, lying stiff and still in the box not far away. Now I was a killer too. I had my revenge. But revenge is not sweet. Revenge is sour.
Inside the pipe I could see grass and straw and bits of chewed-up paper.
The rat had been protecting its nest. My heart slowed. The blood seemed to run backwards in my veins. I carefully moved the top layer of grass with my crowbar.
‘Please,’ I prayed. ‘Please don’t let there be . . .’
It’s funny that moment when you realise you have just done something terrible. Something you cannot take back. A deed that you can’t undo. You remember. It burns into your brains. And stays there for ever. Somehow I just knew that the rat was a mother. I had just lost my own. I knew what it felt like to be motherless.
I pulled apart the straw. There in the nest, was a helpless, hairless piece of living flesh. The eyelids were still unopened. Thin, veined membranes stretched across its tiny eyes. It moved one leg feebly. It reminded me of a tiny wind-up toy that can only make the same squirming movement over and over again.
What do you call a baby rat? A rattling? I didn’t know.
‘Ratty,’ I said in a whispered voice.
6
I felt ashamed for killing Ratty’s mother.
How could I make it up to this helpless creature? I knew what Dad would do. The tiny rat would not last more than a few seconds once he returned. Especially when he found out that the bilbies were dead.
I cradled Ratty in the palm of my hand to keep her warm. I stumbled across the clearing to the house and rushed into my bedroom. I found a small cardboard box and filled it with fluffed-up tissues. Then I put Ratty inside.
What do baby rats need? Milk. Mother’s milk. And I didn’t have a drop of it.
I yanked open the fridge and grabbed some cow’s milk. It was cold. Too cold. I poured some into a cup and warmed it in the microwave for a few seconds. I searched in the medicine cabinet and found a small eyedropper. Just the thing. I hoped.
I drew a few drops of milk into the eye dropper and placed the end in Ratty’s mouth. The tiny creature sucked. I couldn’t believe it. Even though she was blind and helpless, she could still suck.
But how much should I give it? And how often? After a few drops Ratty seemed to tire of the effort. Milk ran down her hairless little chin. Goosebumps were standing out on her skin.
I quickly covered her up with some tissues – to keep her warm.
A friendly sound drifted across the clearing. Before I even realised what it was a feeling of dread ran down my spine. It was the putt, putt putting of Dad’s dinghy.
I watched him tie up to the jetty and begin to drag a roll of wire towards the bungalow. Then he glanced towards the bilby hutch. He dropped the wire and started running.
He burst through the door.
‘What are you doing?’ he yelled. ‘I thought I told you not to leave the hutch. What happened?’
‘A rat killed Breeze,’ I said with a shaking voice. ‘And ate the babies.’
‘Why did you leave her unprotected?’ said Dad. I could tell he was trying to control his temper.
‘My hat blew into the river,’ I said softly. ‘I had to go and get it.’
There was a long, silent pause. Then he exploded. ‘Do you know what you’ve done? We have one bilby left on the mainland. One. This is the end of the line. There are not going to be any more Eastern Bilbies. All because of you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry. But Mum’s hat . . .’
At that moment Dad lost it. He just freaked out. ‘Your hat. Your stupid hat. I’m sick of it. What about all the things I’ve given you over the years? Can’t you think about anything else? Breeze is dead.’
His eyes fell on the cardboard box in my hand.
‘What’s that?’
‘A baby rat,’ I said. ‘I killed the mother and then I found her in the nest.’
‘Hand it over,’ said Dad. ‘Now. You know what has to happen, Jason.’
‘Her name is Ratty,’ I said. ‘And you’re not getting her.’
I turned and ran. Straight down the beach to the water’s edge. Dad was right behind me. He had me trapped. I turned to face him.
7
Behind me was the sea, grey and threatening. The choppy surface gave no hint of the terrors beneath. Or the beauty. Butterfly fish and rainbow eels. And sharks. And crocodiles.
In front of me was my furious father.
The wind tugged at my hat. I made a quick grab at the brim with one hand and pulled it further on to my head. I needed both hands to keep Ratty’s box from tipping and sending her into the water.
‘Give me that rat,’ said Dad. ‘This is no joke, Jason. You’ve seen what a rat can do. You saw Breeze dead and stiff. Her babies eaten.’
‘Ratty is a pet,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep her in a cage. I’ll never let her out. I promise. Please let me keep her.’
‘That is not a pet, Jason. That is vermin. That rat will never be tame. It will grow up to be a killer like its mother.’
I looked down into the frail cardboard box at the helpless creature squirming in the straw. It wasn’t a rat to me. It was Ratty. It had a name.
‘I love her,’ I shrieked. ‘You’re not getting her.’
‘Hand it over, Jason,’ said Dad. He took a step forward.
I shook my head and began to walk backwards into the water. Quickly it covered my ankles and then my knees. Dad followed.
This was crazy. The world was mad. Dad would do anything to save a bilby or a crocodile or even a snake. Because they were natives and they belonged. But he could kill a pig or rabbit or a cane toad because they didn’t.
I knew he would kill Ratty. And deep down in my heart I knew he might be right.
But I was only a boy and you can’t always do what is right. And maybe sometimes what seems right is really wrong. How can you be sure?
I was trapped. If I fled out to sea Ratty and I would both drown.
I put the small cardboard box on the surface of the water. For a minute it floated safely. But then the water began to soak through and I knew it would sink.
I had to give Ratty a chance. I had a choice. A terrible choice.
What is more important? A thing or a life? It is hard to decide, even when the thing has a million memories.
I put the rat in the hat.
Very gently I lowered Ratty onto the surface of the water. An Akubra hat floats. I already knew that.
The breeze was blowing strongly off-shore. The hat began to move quickly out to sea.
Mum’s hat, my beloved mum’s hat, began to bob out to sea.
Okay, Ratty didn’t have much of a chance. The hat would probably tip over. Or a seagull or bird of prey might swoop down and eat the poor creature. Even if the hat washed up on an island there was no one to feed a blind, baby rat. But a tiny chance was better than no chance. Dad would kill Ratty like any other piece of vermin, that was for sure.
> Suddenly I heard a strangled cry. Dad looked as if he was about to choke.
‘You care that much,’ he whispered. ‘You’d give up the hat for the rat.’
I nodded. I knew my eyes were filled with tears. Tears of love and hate and anger.
Without a word Dad bent over and pulled off his shoes. Then he ripped off his shirt and dived into the water. He began swimming furiously out to sea, towards the distant hat. His arms churned like crazy propellers.
‘Come back,’ I screamed. ‘Come back.’
I wanted to go after him.
But I couldn’t swim.
Suddenly Ratty didn’t seem to matter so much. Neither did the hat. Dad was risking his life in the crocodile-infested waters. Was it to save the hat? Was it to save Ratty? What? What?
Now only one thing seemed to matter. My father. I imagined huge jaws and sharp teeth. Box jellyfish. Nameless horrors.
Dad was a good swimmer. His splashing figure grew smaller and smaller until I could barely see him.
‘Come back, come back,’ I cried.
I strained my eyes trying to understand the story that was unfolding.
Yes, yes. He was coming back. And what was that? Oh, he was wearing the hat. That’s why he had gone. To save my hat. He had tipped Ratty into the water. To drown.
These are some things you have to face up to. A father is more important than a rat. Dad was still in danger. At any moment he might disappear beneath the waves. Pulled into the deep. Would he end up as just a brief red smudge in the ocean?
I bit my fists until they started to bleed.
Finally Dad staggered ashore. Water dripped from his sodden jeans.
We stared at each other for seconds that seemed to go on for ever.
‘I saved your hat,’ said Dad.
I nodded, sad and grateful. ‘It’s okay, dad,’ I said. ‘I understand. About Ratty, I mean.’
Slowly Dad took the hat off his head. There, tangled up in his hair was a tiny, squirming creature.
‘Ratty,’ I screamed.
Dad straightened up and stepped backwards.
‘You know,’ said Dad. ‘When a rat kills a bilby it is not pleasant. Especially when it steals the babies and eats them.’
Unreal Collection! Page 21
