‘That’s right, take a load off. See if you can’t spark up that fire, and me and Scruffy here’ll go and get the tucker.’
Luke gave Angus a long, grateful look.
‘One more thing,’ said Angus. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Luke. Luke Tyler.’
Angus doffed his hat. ‘Pleased to meet you, Luke.’
Feeling a little steadier on his feet, Luke stoked the fire. Soon a fine blaze crackled in the hearth. Angus returned with wallaby steaks, damper and a juicy apple each. It was an ample lunch and for the first time in a very long time, Luke ate his fill. After feeding Scruffy the scraps, Angus beckoned for Luke to follow him outside.
At the back of the hut stood tethered an enormous red-and-white bullock, bearing three large packs overflowing with skins and tools.
‘Meet Toro. Stronger than any horse, half the cost and twice as amenable.’
Toro bellowed a welcome. Luke rubbed the friendly beast between his sweeping horns, while Angus unfastened a shovel and pick from the pack saddle. ‘Let’s give Clarry that decent burial you was talking about.’
With the help of the right tools, they were able to bury Clarry within the margin of the trees. ‘No need to advertise,’ said Angus. ‘If folks in town don’t know what’s happened to Clarry, then we’d best try to keep it that way. Wouldn’t do for the law to come poking about now, would it?’
They gathered stones and built a rough cairn to mark the spot.
The spring sun was as high as it would rise, when Angus, with hat in hand, stood with Luke and Scruffy before the grave. Bowing his head, he haltingly recited a few words from the Bible.
‘Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.
Before the mountains were brought forth,
Or ever you formed the earth and the world,
Even from everlasting to everlasting,
You are God.
Amen.’
Luke gazed up at the snow-dusted peaks, which formed a dramatic backdrop to the sacred scene. He’d lost any faith he might have had, but a sense of wonder overcame him all the same. In that moment he saw something divine in the mountains presiding over his freedom and in the sheltering forest. Luke’s eyes filled with tears and, for once, all fear left him.
Angus stayed for the rest of the afternoon. Fetching clothes from one of his packs, he threw them to Luke. ‘Here. Do me a favour. Burn them lice-ridden rags you’re wearing, along with that bracken bed you slept in last night. And while you’re at it, go down to the creek and wash the bugs out of your hair. I’ll not be lending clobber and blankets to any flea-infested convict.’ Luke grinned and caught a bar of carbolic soap as it whizzed through the air at his head. ‘And it’s probably more than me life’s worth letting you get your hands on this here cut-throat razor, but apart from helping to delouse you, a haircut and shave’ll help disguise you. I’ll wager even your own mother wouldn’t recognise you then.’
Luke flinched at the suggestion. After all this time, his mother may well not recognise him. He headed down to the creek, carrying his new trousers. Stripping off, he stood naked in the icy water, washing months of grime from filthy skin. Lock by lock, he cut off his lousy, matted hair and watched the tufts sail downstream. He shaved his scalp and face with the blunt blade right down to skin, leaving red welts like a rookie shearer, then scrubbed his head with the harsh stinging soap till it burned.
Luke stepped from the cleansing stream onto a sunlit rock, feeling reborn. He’d endured the tormenting itch of lice for so long it had felt normal. Finally free from its crawling irritation, the contrast was startling. He raised his eyes to the mountains and was struck by a realisation. He’d endured fear for so long, it too had felt normal – intrinsic to his being. The presence of the quiet peaks gave him courage.
Luke put on his new trousers. Heading back up to the hut, naked to the waist, he met Angus coming down to replenish his waterskins.
‘Christ,’ said Angus. ‘Someone’s given you a flogging or two in your time.’
Luke shrugged. His back was covered in an old wickerwork of raised scars. His sore shoulder was red and inflamed.
Angus took a closer look. ‘A bullet winged you then, did it, lad? That looks right nasty. Come back up to the hut and I’ll bandage it. Clean it up with a little iodine as well.’
Luke shot Angus a grateful smile. The shoulder now ached constantly.
‘I thought they’d banned floggings,’ said Angus as he tended the wound.
‘Not everybody’s read the rule book. Solitary’s worse. I once spent thirty days alone in a cell without windows. Sends you mad. Does something awful to your brain until you’re sure you’d be better off dead. I’d rather a good whipping any day.’
Angus gently squeezed his arm. ‘That’s all behind you now, lad.’
He supervised the burning of Luke’s clothing, then, leaving some provisions and a blanket, he said goodbye. ‘You’d best be lying low for a few weeks. Not many people know about this hut, nor is it easy travelling between here and Hills End. You should be safe enough, though keep your wits about you.’
Luke buried his face in his hands, dreading the thought of being alone again.
‘Don’t you worry, son. I’ll not let you down, nor give you up to the coppers neither. I’m off to Hills End now, but I’ll be back when I reckon any hullabaloo’s died down. Of course, that might take a might longer than usual, considering it was you what knocked his lordship’s teeth out.’ He chuckled and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘I’ll guarantee there’s a reward posted, and a big one too. But generally these things die down pretty quick. There’s plenty of ne’er-do-wells in Hills End and the normal go is no questions asked. When things settle, I’ll fetch you. Come gold panning with me, if you like.’
‘I’d like that, sir,’ said Luke, overwhelmed with gratitude. ‘I’d like that a lot. How can I thank you?’
‘By taking care, son, and keeping out of sight.’ Angus doffed his battered hat. ‘It’s been a grand pleasure.’
With that, he untied his unusual packhorse, hoisted Scruffy onto Toro’s broad back and set off down the mountain.
The trio wended their way from sight. Luke stowed away the contributions from Angus and headed out to set his snare. Despite the bandage, his shoulder throbbed painfully, and despite the cooling day, he felt a little hot behind the eyes. He’d meant to go fishing, but weariness defeated him. Instead he collected fresh ferns and firewood for the night and returned to the hut. He made a billy of tea, ate a little salt-beef and damper. Then he lay down under the clean blanket and fell asleep.
Sometime in the early hours as his fire lay low, little more than pale embers, Luke woke to Bear’s mournful howl. Resounding through the still night, it swelled in power until it caused the very hut to quiver. It echoed off the tors, rebounded in the gullies, filled the vast wilderness.
Luke thrilled and shivered at the sound. The great black dog, so instrumental in his flight to freedom, was calling to him. The cry became the howl of his own heart. Luke drifted off to sleep, certain of a bond that couldn’t be denied.
CHAPTER 8
Over the coming days, Coorinna and the lost dog maintained their odd friendship. Often the lonely she-tiger cocked her head, ears straining to detect the call of her kind. Her sensitive nose tested the air over and over for the scent of another thylacine. She was ever disappointed.
All through the bush, life renewed itself. Spring was in full flux. Tender shoots of grass sprang fresh underfoot. Waratah and leatherwood flowers unfurled. Eager seedlings emerged from the warming earth, vying for the sun’s strengthening kiss, and stands of native beech burst into bright leaf.
The quickening of sap in the forest was matched by the urgent desire of bush creatures to go forth and multiply. From the lowliest minnow to the lordly wedge-tailed eagle, all sought the comfort and satisfaction of a partner. The uplands throbbed with fertile vitality. Yet Coorinna remained unmated.
Her cubs,
untroubled by their mother’s restlessness, explored all their mountain home could offer. Each night there were new smells to investigate, new creatures to chase, fresh tarns to splash through with faithful Bear as escort. But their cautious mother was unwilling to travel too far. With unerring accuracy she always delivered the little pack safely back to their den by dawn.
Though unsuccessful in her efforts to find a mate, in other ways Coorinna’s life was greatly improved. The active assistance of Bear and her growing cubs meant their hunting forays rarely failed. Coorinna grew strong. She no longer discouraged Bear. His unfailing good nature and the cubs’ confidence in him allayed her fears.
The first few times Bear ventured inside the den he was swiftly repelled. But persistence paid and within days Coorinna’s attacks lost their fury. Soon she accepted him deep within the comfortable lair, which she’d lined with ferns and moss. She even tended his injury, unable to resist cleaning Bear’s festering shoulder with her neat, efficient tongue. The grateful dog lay very still, acknowledging her assistance with an occasional tail thump. Thanks to Coorinna’s constant attention, the infection soon abated and Bear’s wound healed.
Luke wasn’t so fortunate. His injured shoulder continued to plague him, growing more and more painful each day. It was one thing to bid his fears goodbye in the cleansing creek with a new set of clothes and Angus for company. But it was quite another to maintain a positive outlook through the dreary days that followed. He didn’t hunt or trap; he felt too ill. He called for Bear and left out damper, but the dog never came. More than Luke’s shoulder ached now. His heart ached too – with despair and loneliness. A week passed. More.
His imagination filled the forest with strange, half-seen forms, and he stayed close to the hut. The sight of old Clarry’s grave in the shadow of the trees never failed to disturb him. All too often now, he imagined his own to be the next set of bleached bones to be scattered carelessly over the grass. Luke spent his days watching for Angus to return. Though on guard against strangers, he saw no one. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth.
He slept more and more, finding comfort in the dream world.
In sleep, Bear always came when called. With the big dog at his side, baying at a dream moon, Luke returned effortlessly to his family or travelled the world on wings of steel forged by his own hand. At other times, he sat in judgement upon a snivelling, pleading Henry Abbott, unceremoniously consigning him to the hangman’s noose.
Luke became eager for sleep. He neglected his wound. And for some reason, he didn’t feel hungry any more. The days melted into each other with seamless tedium.
One morning he didn’t leave the hut at all. The hearth lay cold and Luke stayed in bed, mind muddled with fever. That night Bear’s howl seemed to travel back with him from the dream world. Sometimes he heard a whimper when he thought he was awake.
Luke stumbled to his feet, pissed on the dead fire and collapsed back to bed, trembling and delirious. A bitter south wind had blown the door open and the hut was freezing. Yet Luke felt unbearably hot, and tore off his shirt. He could swear he saw Bear, but he didn’t trust his senses. Thresholds of reality and imagination blurred as infection took serious hold.
For three days and nights Luke battled the fever: barely conscious, eyes closed, head aching, dreams no longer pleasurable. The creaking of the walls in the wind became the creaking of the old pony cart, carrying his trembling sister home from Henry Abbott’s house. The moaning and wailing of storms through the forest became the cries of his mother as the constables dragged him away. His jaw clenched weakly, muscles quivering, twitching, exhausting his sick body even further.
Bear stood beside Luke’s bed. Despite the company of his strange pack, he yearned for something more, something lost. He yearned for the companionship of man, to sleep before a fire, to feel the touch of a hand. To hear a loving voice.
As morning passed into afternoon, Bear maintained his vigil. There was comfort in proximity to the sleeping man. Bear licked Luke’s arm, where it sprawled across the floor. It was bathed in perspiration. He made a thorough job of it, cleaning every inch of bare skin. He pulled at the filthy shoulder bandage until it came away. He cleaned the oozing wound with his tongue. Then he lay down beside Luke, relishing the feel of the man’s limp hand pressed against him. There he remained for many hours, until Luke’s stirring broke the spell. Bear didn’t go far, just down to the creek for a drink before settling contentedly on the sunny doorstep, where he snatched an hour or two of sleep. It was late afternoon before he returned to the tigers.
A cooperative strategy was developing within the pack. Bear took his cues from Coorinna and proved an apt student. With a functional family group of two adults and three half-grown cubs, Coorinna could use the time-honoured hunting practices learned from her mother. Stronger, and growing sleek of hide, she now targeted wallabies, her favourite food.
The two smaller cubs would show themselves to a group of wallabies foraging at the forest edge. With instinctive precision they chased their prey in the direction of Bear, Coorinna and the male cub who hid crouched some distance ahead. When the wallabies came bounding along, the waiting predators singled out the weakest animal and launched an attack.
The big dog learned quickly. Ten thousand years of domestication was hardly enough to extinguish two million years of evolution for such basic instincts as predatory aggression. Given the opportunity to track prey or pursue a moving target, the wolf in Bear made a sudden resurgence.
He became a formidable killer: finely tuned, controlled and intelligent – a worthy honorary thylacine. Even large kangaroos couldn’t withstand the assault of two hundred pounds of muscle, teeth and bone. When his fangs found their throats, he braced his forefeet, hurled himself backwards like a spring released, and it was over.
This became Bear’s routine – hunting with the pack by night and spending his days at the hut. The cubs were curious about where Bear disappeared to each day, but a stern glance from their mother discouraged their adventurous attempts to follow him.
Luke woke to the musical sound of magpies. His thirst burned, but the searing heat was gone from his brow. His body felt cool, almost cold. His head no longer throbbed and his shoulder barely pained him. He tried to move his legs, but they refused to obey him. Luke turned to see if his water-pot was within reach.
Bear was sitting by the door. For a while Luke imagined himself still asleep and fought against waking. The dog was even larger than he remembered: shinier, fatter, his huge frame blocking the doorway. Luke reached out and Bear flinched. Luke called, but his parched throat made no sound. He tried to stand. On the third attempt he succeeded.
Luke gulped down the few drops of water in the pot, soothing his swollen tongue. Now perhaps he could speak. He called to Bear. The dog shivered, as if afraid. Luke was afraid too – afraid that Bear would leave, that Bear would desert him.
Bear backed from the hut, out of sight. Luke stumbled to the door. Would the dog be gone? No, there he was – waiting, watching. Relief swept through Luke, threatening to drain the strength from his legs. Steadying himself, he picked up the pot. He tried to whistle but his lips were too dry. Instead he patted his thigh several times in what he hoped was an encouraging way, and cast a friendly, expectant glance at Bear. Then he moved off towards the creek.
To his delight the dog followed, maintaining a discreet distance. Luke reached the creek, gulping down great draughts of sweet water. Energy seeped into his dehydrated body. Bear watched while Luke sat on a rock, drenched his face and hands, and refilled the pot. He inspected his injured shoulder. The wound shone pink and clean. Luke grinned and started for the hut, this time managing a whistle. Bear responded with an uncertain wag of his tail and Luke whooped with delight.
Bear remained at the hut, staying at arm’s length, until the afternoon shadows grew long. Then, with a sharp bark of goodbye, he abruptly disappeared up the timbered slope. Luke cursed the mountain that stole the dog, calling useless
ly into the bush until cold and exhaustion drove him inside to find a fitful, restless sleep.
CHAPTER 9
Belle Campbell came downstairs from her bedroom. In riding trousers she could easily have been mistaken for a boy, if not for her mane of golden-chestnut hair. She followed the sound of raised voices through the house and into the library. Mama and Papa were arguing about her again.
‘I simply must take Belle to Hobart,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Most girls of her age are preparing to enter society. Instead she’s running wild as a tomboy out here in the wilderness.’
‘There’s no hurry,’ said Daniel. ‘She’s only sixteen.’
Belle clamped a hand to her forehead and groaned. Why did her parents always talk about her like she wasn’t there?
Daniel took a textbook on fungi down from the shelf. With a sigh, Elizabeth prised it out of his hands.
‘Almost seventeen,’ she said. ‘And Belle needs time. Learning to behave like a lady might not come easily to our daughter.’
‘I’m sure it won’t.’ He took the book back. ‘She’s bound to find the constraints of polite society as insufferable as you did, Lizzie.’
Belle stepped between them. ‘Why don’t you ask me what I want?’
Daniel beamed. ‘A capital idea.’ He opened the book and scanned the index. ‘You decide, Belle.’
‘I’ll go if my friend Grace goes, but only for a week. We have to be back for the birth of Star’s foal.’
‘I was thinking of a longer stay,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Plays, shopping, balls. We’ll have lots of fun, but I’m afraid Grace can’t come this time, darling.’
‘Then I’m staying. Much as I love you, Mama, it’s boring when it’s just us.’
‘You have your answer, Lizzie.’
Papa didn’t look up from his book. That was bound to make her mother mad.
‘We both know it’s not so simple, Daniel. In this case you must choose for her, and you must choose Hobart.’
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