Walking the Boundaries

by Jackie French

  ‘Listen!’ cried Martin. ‘It’s an animal! It has to be! I don’t think there are any people here.’

  ‘No people? But there must be blackfellers . . . tribes somewhere . . .’

  ‘I think we’re back before the tribes . . . before there were any people in the world.’

  ‘But there must be people,’ stammered Meg.

  ‘Not here — not this far in the past . . .’ He broke off.

  ‘Geeek . . . geeek . . . geeeeeeeeeek . . .’

  The noise was coming closer. Martin looked round for a stick, for a rock, for anything to use as a weapon. Perhaps they should run, but the animal might hear. Maybe they could hide — but where could you hide in this too-bright world? Even the tree-like things were no good to climb.

  ‘Geeek geeek geek geeek . . .’

  ‘Stay quiet!’ whispered Martin. ‘Maybe it won’t see us!’

  ‘It’ll smell us! Martin . . .’

  The animal blundered out from behind a clump of moss below them.

  Meg giggled.

  The animal was small, about the size of a sheepdog, but rounder, like a beanbag filled too tight. It was brownish-red, a little darker than Meg’s hair, but shaggier, like a fluffy long-haired carpet. It had muscular legs, a little like a bear’s, a body like a tubby wombat, a head like a long-eared rhinoceros. Funniest of all was the short fat trunk that wobbled as it walked.

  The animal peered at the newcomers shortsightedly. ‘Geek geeeek . . .’

  ‘Geeeek yourself,’ said Martin. ‘Go on, geek off. Geek geek geek!’

  ‘Geek!’ cried the animal happily. It ran up to Martin and butted him on the leg.

  ‘Ouch!’ yelled Martin. ‘No, Meg, it isn’t funny. How’d you like to be bashed by a hairy cannonball?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ gurgled Meg. ‘Oh Martin, it’s so sweet. I think it likes you.’

  ‘Likes me! Ow!’ Martin grabbed his knee. ‘The beast bit me!’

  ‘No, it didn’t. It was just trying to be friendly. Like a wombat. They give you little bites too. It just shows you’re their friend.’

  ‘This friend has just put two great holes in my jeans. Look, I’m bleeding! Shove off, blubber-belly,’ ordered Martin.

  ‘Geek,’ said the animal reproachfully, lifting its trunk to show two long teeth at the top and bottom of its jaw. ‘Geek geeek.’ It butted Martin’s knee again.

  ‘Hey, cut it out!’

  ‘Don’t frighten the poor thing,’ warned Meg. She bent down and scratched the animal behind its floppy ears. The fat trunk drooped ecstatically. ‘What sort of animal is it, do you think?’

  Martin carefully stepped back out of reach of the animal’s teeth. ‘All I can think of is a Diprotodon.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘A Diprotodon. They were great big marsupials that lived here for about fourteen million years before people came. Sort of like giant wombats.’

  ‘This one’s not a giant,’ said Meg. ‘Are you, little blossom, little pretty pie?’ The animal rubbed its shaggy fur against her knees. Its tiny eyes watched Martin hopefully, as though to say: ‘Why aren’t you scratching me too?’

  ‘Maybe it’s a baby. Maybe they weren’t all giant. Heck, I don’t know,’ admitted Martin. ‘I just read about them a bit at school.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does. Maybe they all died when the climate changed and it got dryer. Maybe humans wiped them out.’

  ‘Humans? You mean blackfellers?’

  Martin nodded. ‘Some people think they changed the country by burning it.’

  Meg was silent for a moment. ‘Like we changed it with our sheep and cattle. And cutting the trees down. Poor little beastie,’ said Meg, giving its flat head a final pat. ‘We should give you a name.’

  ‘Dracula,’ suggested Martin, inspecting his knee. ‘Look, it’s still bleeding.’ He shoved his wound under Meg’s nose. Meg ignored him.

  ‘Dracula,’ she murmured. ‘It sounds sweet. What does it mean?’

  ‘You’ve never heard of Dracula?’

  Meg shook her head.

  ‘Oh,’ said Martin. He considered. Meg began to stroke the shaggy trunk.

  ‘Geeeek,’ purred the animal. Martin watched them resentfully as it lifted its trunk and rubbed her skirt. Why didn’t it bite her too?

  ‘It means cute little animal,’ he lied.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Meg. She rubbed Dracula behind the ears. ‘Goodbye, little Dracula,’ she said. ‘We have to go now.’ She stood up. ‘The trouble is — which way in heaven’s name are we supposed to be going?’

  Martin looked around. Meg was right. It wasn’t just the vegetation that had changed. Even the hills seemed different.

  ‘Uh . . . that way?’ he suggested.

  Meg gazed around consideringly. ‘It doesn’t seem right,’ she said. ‘Let’s see, the sun was to our left when we left the cave, so if we go that way the sun’ll be on our left again.’

  Martin nodded uncertainly. He hoped she was right. He hoped Old Ted had been right when he said he’d see him Sunday evening. What if they just kept going back and back in time? What if they got lost in this peculiar world and lost the boundaries? They might never be able to leave again!

  ‘Come on,’ said Meg. ‘Maybe we can catch up to Wullamudulla. Maybe he’ll let us walk with him now everything has changed. He’ll be better than me at knowing which way we have to go, I’m sure.’

  It was strange walking on the moss, like stepping on a soft damp sponge. Oily moisture oozed with every step. Martin’s Reeboks were soon soaked, and Meg’s feet looked like they’d been dipped in ink.

  ‘Geeek,’ said a voice behind them.

  ‘I thought we’d lost you,’ said Martin.

  ‘Geeek.’

  ‘If he thinks he’s coming with us,’ said Martin, rubbing his knee, ‘he can think again.’

  ‘Of course little Dracula can come too,’ said Meg. ‘Anyway, it’s not a he, it’s a she.’

  ‘How do you know?’ demanded Martin. ‘You don’t know anything about Diprotodons.’

  ‘Well, I know about males and females,’ said Meg. ‘You take a look.’

  She was laughing at him, thought Martin affronted. Martin peered down at Dracula. Maybe Meg was right. He straightened up, embarrassed. ‘All right,’ he muttered. ‘So he’s a she. Come on. We need to get moving.’

  Near the top of the hill the country changed. The squelchy moss gave way to grass and tussock, the fern-topped trees changed to gum trees, almost like the ones they knew. Dracula pattered along behind them, swinging her short fat trunk. She grunted with pleasure at the sight of the trees, and reached upwards, scratching at the bark with her long claws. She took a mouthful of bark and began to chew.

  ‘Look at her,’ said Meg, amazed. ‘Her teeth must be tough.’

  ‘They are,’ said Martin feelingly. ‘Hey, look down there!’

  Meg squinted into the dappled light. ‘What are they? They look like emus . . . but emus aren’t as big as that!’

  ‘Prehistoric emus,’ murmured Martin. ‘Giant emus . . . there must be hundreds of them.’

  They watched the massive birds stalk through the trees, brown and tan and grey like the shadows on their backs, their long thin toes pointing like they’d been learning ballet.

  ‘Wow,’ said Martin finally. ‘I’m glad we’re up here and they’re down there. Which way do you think we should go now?’ He gazed out through the trees. They seemed to get thicker again at the base of the hill. He thought he saw the glint of water.

  ‘That way,’ said Meg, pointing to their left.

  That was the way the ‘emus’ had gone. Martin shook his head. They’d gone the way Meg thought last time. It was his turn now. ‘I think we should go down there,’ he said, pointing to the right.

  Meg hesitated.

  ‘Come on,’ said Martin. He began to march down the hill.

  ‘Geeek!’

  ‘What the .
. .?’

  ‘Geeeek,’ said Dracula firmly, lifting her trunk to show her sharp front teeth as she butted his leg again.

  Meg giggled. ‘She doesn’t want you to go that way,’ she observed.

  Martin looked down at Dracula. Maybe Meg was right. Dracula was pushing him to the left, almost as though she wanted him to change his course. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You win.’ It was a good excuse, anyway. He’d realised as soon as he started walking that Meg had been right. This way he didn’t have to admit it. He glanced over at her. She looked smug. So did Dracula, swinging her trunk by his side.

  The air was growing even hotter. It clung to their faces with thin fingers, and drew fat tears of sweat. Only Dracula seemed unconcerned. Suddenly she stopped. She sniffed, hoisting her trunk into the thick air and twitching its shiny pink rim.

  ‘Geeeeeeeeeeek!’

  Martin lifted his head. That wasn’t Dracula! That was . . .

  There were footsteps heading towards them. Heavy footsteps, like an elephant in gumboots tramping through the bush. The trumpeting roar seemed to shake the branches up above.

  ‘Geeeeeeeeeeek!!!!!!’

  It was an animal, massive as a minibus, but stronger, tougher. Its shoulders were like a mutated footballer’s, shaggy red and broad. Suddenly it charged towards them.

  It was just like Dracula, but bigger. Much, much bigger. Its trunk shuddered as it ran. The ground seemed to shudder too.

  There was no time to run, no time to hide. Martin picked up a rock and bowled it at the animal. It hit its trunk.

  ‘Gee-eek!’

  The animal stopped, confused. It blinked at them with piggy eyes.

  Martin grabbed another rock. He hadn’t expected it to stop. Maybe it was a coward — of course, it was a herbivore, a leaf and bark eater, like Dracula. It wouldn’t be used to fighting. It might be big, but it must be timid, scared of violence or fighting.

  ‘Geek!’ announced an angry voice beside him. Martin glanced down. Dracula’s trunk was raised in challenge. Her teeth were bared. She lifted one long tough claw as though to say: ‘Come on!’

  Martin’s dream of peaceful herbivores disappeared. The larger animal’s trunk rose, higher than Dracula’s, ready to slash down. The pink tip glistened. Its mouth opened, showing a long pink tongue, and longer teeth, like shovels, thought Martin, sharp bright shovels that could tear and bite. The animal took a slow determined step towards them, then another, and another. It sniffed at Meg and Martin, then turned its beady eye . . .

  ‘Martin!’ gasped Meg. ‘It’s after Dracula!’

  Martin hurled his second rock. Thank heavens for cricket training. It clunked just above the animal’s eye. Another caught it on the ear. Meg was throwing too.

  The animal stopped again. It seemed confused.

  ‘Geek! Geek!’

  ‘Dracula! For heaven’s sake shut up!’ yelled Martin. He cast another stone. It hit the animal on the eye. It shrieked with pain, and turned. They listened to its footsteps lumber slowly away.

  Meg was gasping. Martin’s heart was beating so hard it hurt. ‘Geek,’ announced Dracula with satisfaction.

  Martin looked down at her. ‘Huh. You thought you won that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Geeek.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t. If we hadn’t been here that beast would have torn you to shreds. So stop looking all puffed up.’

  ‘Geek geek,’ said Dracula happily.

  Meg bent down and scratched behind her ears. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think that’s why Dracula’s been following us.’

  ‘Why? Because she likes the taste of my blood?’

  ‘No, silly. I think these are her boundaries too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, all animals have territories, an area that belongs to them. I think this is her area. An animal as large as that one must have an awfully big territory. I think Dracula is marking out her territory. That’s why she was prepared to fight any other animal that tried to claim it too. Even one as big as that.’

  ‘Territories,’ said Martin wonderingly. ‘That’s what we’re doing too, isn’t it? Claiming our territory. Walking round our boundaries.’

  Meg nodded. ‘But we’re different from Dracula. We can decide what to do with our territory. We’ve got the power to change it.’ She paused. ‘But what about Wullamudulla? He doesn’t want to change his territory. He just wants to follow his ancestor’s footsteps.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Martin tried to think. He gestured at the world around them. ‘Maybe his people changed this world. Even if they’ve never done the sorts of things that we’ve done in your time and mine.’

  They were both silent for a moment. Dracula swung her trunk impatiently. ‘Geek.’

  ‘I think she wants to get moving,’ smiled Meg. She grinned. ‘At least we know what Dracula’s going to look like when she grows up.’

  ‘Yeah,’ grunted Martin. ‘Big.’

  The sun shone with a young viciousness through the early afternoon light. The country changed again as they walked — tall tough grass tufted with golden seedheads, dark-leafed trees that sat like squat umbrellas. Strange birds flapped through strange high leaves. A spotted cat-like creature like a long-faced lion glared at them from the shadows, its sharp teeth grasping the dappled body of a giant lizard. Meg shuddered.

  ‘I don’t like this place,’ she whispered.

  ‘Neither do I,’ muttered Martin. He glanced back. The cat-like animal was bent back to its prey again. He could hear the slobber as it tore and chewed.

  Up another hill. The grass was thinner here, hunting for soil between shale that glittered in the strong light. Martin wondered what the hill was like in his own time. Were there tall thick gums, or silver wattles, or was it almost bare, like this? Some day he’d have to see — one day, perhaps.

  They crossed the hill, and began to descend again. Down below them something glinted silver between the trees. Perhaps it was a lake, or pools of water in a swamp. Then the trees closed round, and it was gone.

  Dracula tore at a tussock, wrenching out the tough blades with her sharp front teeth. She followed them, munching. Martin glanced at her enviously. ‘It’s all right for you,’ he said. ‘You’ve got tucker all around you. I’m hungry.’

  Meg giggled. ‘How about that for your dinner then?’ she asked. She pointed up the hill. ‘Lovely ants. I’m sure it’d share some with you.’

  At first glance it was an echidna, probing among the rocks. Martin stared. No echidna was that big though, or as furry. Surely it was the wrong colour, too?

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Martin. He looked at the feasting ‘echidna’ dreamily. ‘What I’d like would be a giant hamburger . . . or a pizza with olives and anchovies.’

  Meg blinked. ‘I’ve never heard of any of those,’ she admitted. ‘How do you hunt a pizza? Can you trap them?’

  Martin hesitated. ‘It would take too long to explain,’ he said as they began to walk again. ‘What would you like to eat?’

  ‘Pudding,’ said Meg at once. ‘My ma makes the best pudding in the world. She wraps roo steak in suet pastry — leg meat, that’s the best — then puts it all in a cloth and boils it for hours in the pot outside. It melts on your tongue like pigeon droppings in the rain. We don’t get pudding often — only when someone brings supplies from town. The flour doesn’t last — it gets crawlies in it after a few months, and you have to sift them out to make the pudding. And then it doesn’t taste so good, even when you get the crawlies out, like maybe they forgot to wipe their feet before they crawled around in it.’ She smiled a little sadly. ‘I always thought when I made my fortune with my sheep I’d be having pudding every day — pudding for my dinner and pudding for breakfast, and bread and damper too. I’d be getting supplies in every month, and have spotted dick every afternoon as well . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Martin, do you hear something?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a sort of whispering — a sort of
hissing. Shh!’

  Martin listened. The leaves rustled overhead. Dracula panted next to his knee. A bird called out nearby, almost like the birds at home. A small animal squeaked up in the trees. And something else . . .

  ‘It’s coming from down there,’ whispered Meg, pointing down the hill. ‘That sort of cleared area.’

  ‘Maybe we should go the other way,’ suggested Martin.

  ‘No.’ Meg hesitated. ‘That’s the way we’re supposed to go. I’m sure it is. It’s the way Wullamudulla must have gone too. Martin, maybe he’s in trouble. We should have seen him by now.’

  ‘He’s travelling faster than us,’ said Martin uncertainly. ‘All right then, let’s go look for him. But quietly.’

  ‘Geek,’ said Dracula.

  ‘That goes for you too,’ said Martin.

  It was hard to walk softly. His Reeboks crackled on the grass. Meg was more silent, her bare feet curling down into the soil. Dracula padded by their side, now and then reaching out her trunk to grab a mouthful of tussock or leaves. Suddenly the trees stopped, as though a line had been drawn. The soil changed colour, dark instead of orange-yellow. Tufts of reeds waved heavy seedheads over pools of stagnant water. The air smelt of rotting garbage and sweat. Patches of grass crawled over firmer ground. The hissing sound was louder.

  ‘Swamp,’ whispered Meg. ‘Be careful where you tread.’

  ‘You be careful too,’ Martin whispered to Dracula. ‘I’m not pulling you out of a mudhole.’

  ‘Over there,’ whispered Meg. She pointed to a clump of trees, growing on what seemed to be an island in the swamp. ‘I’m sure the sound is coming from over there.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Martin quietly. ‘We should get out of here.’

  ‘No! Martin, look! It’s Wullamudulla. I’m sure it is. He’s with something out among the trees.’ She began to step out into the swamp. The soil squelched. The fetid smell grew stronger. Martin caught her arm.

  ‘No,’ he said urgently.

  ‘But he might be in trouble — that hissing . . .’

  ‘I know. But if we just rush in there we might make things worse.’ He pointed to the other side of the swamp. ‘If we go round that way we can stay hidden in the trees.’