Journey’s End

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Kim reached for her beer. Beer and sport on television. Not football, true, but it still took her back. How many nights had she spent like this with Connor, watching AFL? And Daisy was wrong. She and Ben did have something in common. They both barracked for the Giants.

  Ben settled back with a contented sigh. She liked the easy weight of his arm draped round her shoulder. She liked his male smell, his solid presence beside her. Being with Ben felt right: familiar, safe, a guaranteed cure for loneliness.

  She’d told him about the dead sheep, so there would be no secrets to poison their fledgling relationship. But not about Taj’s theory that the dingoes were innocent. Of course, Ben said ‘I told you so’, but otherwise he’d been relaxed about it – surprisingly so, considering that he disapproved of the whole rewilding thing.

  ‘Those dingoes aren’t my problem,’ he’d said with a philosophical shrug. ‘But don’t expect everyone to feel that way. Some blokes will take it as a challenge to shoot the buggers.’

  ‘They’re protected up in Tarringtops,’ said Kim. ‘And there’s no hunting here or at Mel’s.’ She shot Ben a pointed look.

  ‘Okay, I won’t let people shoot at my place,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean they won’t try. You said yourself people have been spotlighting here.’

  Kim didn’t need reminding. Just the week before she’d seen lights, high in the hills behind the house, and heard the crack of rifle shots in the night.

  ‘Bloody ripper,’ yelled Ben, as another wicket fell.

  Kim put a finger to his lips and he nipped at it playfully. ‘Shh, you’ll wake Abbey.’ She had only one ear on the television, listening for the pitter-patter of small feet in the hall. There they were. Kim ducked out from under Ben’s arm just as Abbey came into the lounge room, sleepy-eyed in puppy pyjamas, holding Percy by one ear.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ said Ben. ‘What are you doing up?’

  Abbey stared at him with a steady, unblinking gaze that seemed to look though and beyond him. Then she turned to her mother. ‘When’s he going home?’

  Her daughter was getting as rude as Jake. ‘Don’t mind Abbey. She’s tired.’

  Kim guided her back to her room, sat on the bed, and drew her daughter onto her lap.

  Abbey yawned. ‘I can’t get to sleep when he’s here. Will you read me some more of The Silver Brumby?’

  ‘Okay. Hop into bed.’

  Abbey’s rosebud mouth turned up in a smile, and she snuggled under the covers.

  Kim took the book off the shelf, and lay down. ‘I wish you’d try a bit harder to like Ben,’ said Kim, stroking Abbey’s hair. ‘He’s been a good friend to us, and it would mean a lot to me.’

  Abbey took the book from her mother, turned to the bookmarked page. ‘Read.’

  ‘Will you at least think about what I asked?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  It was not a convincing response. Kim kissed her baffling daughter. In some ways she was as mysterious and exasperating as Taj. ‘Come on then.’ Kim tucked Percy in between them. ‘Let’s see what Thowra and his herd are up to.’

  Two chapters later, and Abbey was finally asleep. Kim glanced at the bedside clock. Almost midnight. The hum of the television had stopped. Kim kissed her daughter goodnight, and bumped into Ben in the hallway.

  ‘I’d better go.’ He indicated Abbey’s room with a point of his chin. ‘She asleep?’

  Kim nodded, linked her arm through Ben’s and walked with him to the back door. ‘I don’t know why she’s got such a set against you.’

  ‘Kids are funny things.’ Ben drew her in for a tender, searching kiss. For a moment she let herself be swept away, surrendering to a quick pulse of desire. But the image of Abbey’s sweet, disapproving face swam before her, and she pulled away.

  Ben groaned and licked his lip, as if savouring what was left of the kiss. ‘I haven’t met a woman like you before.’ He ran his finger down her cheek. ‘A woman who plays such a slow game. We’ve had an understanding for a while now . . .’

  ‘It’s no game,’ she said. ‘I want this to go somewhere . . . for us, to go somewhere.’

  ‘You’re doing it again.’ He gently took hold of her hands and lifted them from the shadows. ‘Playing with your ring.’

  ‘Was I?’

  The gold band on her finger glowed softly in the faint porch light. That old, unconscious habit of feeling for it was hard to break. Such a comfort to touch it, to twist its solid warmth between thumb and forefinger.

  Ben leaned close, and whispered in her ear. ‘Take it off.’

  Kim’s breath caught in her throat. How could she not wear Connor’s ring? She might as well live her life naked. On the other hand, if she wanted to move on . . . If she truly wanted to move on with Ben . . .

  Her fingertips found the wedding band as they had done thousands of times before. Exploring, tracing its smooth strength, spinning its endless arc. An unbroken, eternal circle. The symbolism seemed suddenly hollow, and she tried to wrench the ring off.

  ‘Careful.’ Ben eased it over her knuckle, massaging the finger as he went. With one final twist it came free.

  He dropped the band onto her outstretched palm, and she examined it with new eyes. How peculiar it looked from this angle. How strange. Smaller, humbler, not the same ring at all. Its promise of undying love nowhere in sight.

  He closed her hand over the ring. ‘Now, let’s try it again.’ She closed her eyes. Ben’s kiss was more persuasive this time. His lips recaptured hers, feather-light, then harder. They left her mouth, to find the hollow of her throat. When they moved down to the soft swell of her breasts, she eased herself away.

  Ben scrubbed a hand over his face. He wore a smile of part amusement, part frustration. ‘Jesus, Kim, you sure know how to get a man going. I’d better leave before I explode.’

  Kim watched Ben go, his headlights slicing a path through the rainy darkness. The time was coming when she would not send him off into the night. When she would lead him instead to her bed. But not yet. Abbey’s disapproval weighed too heavily on her heart, and the wedding ring was too heavy in her hand.

  Kim checked in on Abbey, Jake and Dusty, then went to her room, slipping the ring into a drawer. When she flicked out the light, the darkness was all-engulfing. She crawled into bed as the rain grew louder.

  The storm strengthened. Howled like a monster through the black night, roared through the forest, rattled the windows. She normally loved the sound of rain on the roof, but tonight was different. This was a bombardment.

  Kim buried her head in the pillow to block the deafening noise. Her fingers reached automatically for the ring. When they didn’t find it her heart lurched alarmingly. She got up and padded surely to the dresser, despite the inky blackness. Her hand dived into the drawer, connecting with the ring as if it was a magnet and she was iron. Kim slipped it on her finger and exhaled. Back under the covers, and the ferocious peak of the storm was passing. The wailing wind was replaced by the distant cry of dingoes. How things had changed. That eerie sound, once so disturbing, was now a promise that all was well. Reassured by the howling, and by the familiar feel of Connor’s ring on her finger, she drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 32

  Kim woke early to a rosy, rain-washed sky. She’d endured a restless night, and half-remembered dreams hovered just out of reach. Only their vague, unsettling emotions remained. The kids were still asleep. She dressed quickly, called Dusty from Jake’s bed, and went out to meet the morning.

  Just what she needed. A brisk uphill walk past the dam, and a great lungful of fresh mountain air. Notes of mint, eucalyptus, laurel, and the rich earthy smell of damp soil. Leafy bouquets of wind-whipped twigs and branches littered the ground, evidence of the storm. Bull ants scavenged for drowned insects, and toiled to rebuild their flooded mounds. Glossy satin bowerbirds bathed in puddles, their iridescent blue-black plumage gleaming in the cold morning sun. The bush revelled in the rain’s aftermath.

  Dusty was enjoying h
imself too. He bounded on ahead, plunging into the brimming dam, snatching at reeds and floating bark streamers as he dog-paddled about. Kim sat down on a fallen log to watch. Seven months old now, and acquiring the strength and grace of an adult – was it just her, or was the mountain dingo in him showing more and more? In his cat-like agility, and the dexterity of his paws. Dusty used them like hands to turn doorknobs; his rotating wrist-bones were unique in the canine world. In his soft, dark double-coat that kept him warm on the coldest night and allowed him to slip unseen through the shadowy forest. And in the keen, almost human intelligence shining from his eyes. If she could see the growing resemblance to a dingo, so might others. Dusty was due to be desexed the following week when the kids went back to school. Perhaps she should take him farther afield than the vet in Wingham where he’d had his vaccinations.

  Dusty leaped from the water, and galloped towards her. Kim jumped to her feet and ran for the house, knowing what would happen next. It was a futile escape attempt. He overtook her in a few strides, propped in front of her and shook himself, showering her with a rainbow of spray until she was as wet as him. ‘I’ll get you for that,’ she said, shaking with laughter. He smiled – she could swear he smiled as warmly as any person – put his tail between his legs and scooted away, inviting play.

  Then it was on. They tore through the trees, taking turns to chase each other in a gloriously silly game of tag. When she finally collapsed on a green carpet of moss, Dusty dropped down beside her. They lay together in companionable silence. Panting, happy, filled with the joy of young things, although Kim was no longer young. It didn’t matter. With one wave of his plumed tail, the dingo could transport her back to the untroubled days of childhood. Then Dusty raised his head, pricking his ears towards the house. It was very early for visitors.

  The car bore the words Wingham Gazette on its door. Two people stood beside it. The man held a camera and the woman looked vaguely familiar. Dusty kept his distance. He was always shy and cautious with strangers.

  ‘Del Fisher.’ The woman shook Kim’s hand. ‘And this is Andy, my cameraman.’

  The penny dropped. The reporter she’d met at the brumby catch. What was she doing there?

  ‘I didn’t have contact details for you, so thought I’d just rock up. I’m still interested in doing a piece on your rewilding project. Especially now you’re bringing back dingoes. That’s a fascinating angle and, may I say, quite a controversial one.’

  Oh no. Time to shut this thing down. ‘Sorry, I’m not interested.’

  ‘I can promise you a fabulous feature,’ said Del. ‘Double page spread, lots of photos, and syndication in newspapers throughout rural New South Wales. I wouldn’t be surprised if the nationals picked up a story like this.’

  ‘I don’t want publicity.’

  ‘Publicity could bring in funds, sponsors.’

  ‘At the moment, I’m funding the project myself.’ Del took a pen and notebook from her bag, and started scribbling. ‘Put that away,’ said Kim. ‘I said no story.’

  ‘Look, Kim, I have to be honest. This piece will go to print, with or without you.’ As Kim opened her mouth to protest, Del held up her hand. ‘Don’t blame me. Not my call. But if this article is a done deal, which it is, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to be part of it?’

  Kim knew when she was being wedged. But Del was right. She couldn’t afford to let the story get out without putting her side as persuasively as possible.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s do this.’

  ‘Do you have time now? Otherwise we can —’

  ‘Now’s fine.’

  Del was as good as her word, asking intelligent questions, and taking lots of photographs. Kim showed her the rows and rows of seedlings under shade cloth. She showed her the seed propagating igloos and the orchid house. ‘These are endangered ravine orchids.’ Kim put two tiny pots into Del’s hand, and the cameraman took a close-up. ‘Wild goats devastated the only site where they’re known to grow locally, a rock face above Cedar Creek. But when the dingoes moved in, the goats moved out, and the orchids are starting to recover.’

  ‘Great,’ said Del. ‘People love orchids. After we finish here, can you show me the site?’

  Kim nodded. At least she seemed to be getting a fair hearing.

  Del loved the orphaned wildlife: the joeys, possums and new baby wombat. She seemed particularly charmed by the little quolls. ‘Surely if you plan to release native animals like these, bringing back dingoes is foolish?’

  ‘It’s counterintuitive, I know,’ said Kim. ‘But dingoes actually improve the survival of small mammals.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’

  ‘In the past two centuries, thirty mammals have become extinct in Australia, animals that had lived quite happily with dingoes for thousands of years. That’s half the mammalian extinctions in the world. Eastern hare-wallaby? Gone. Lesser bilby? Gone. Broad-faced potoroo? Gone. Dingoes aren’t the problem. It’s the explosion in fox and cat numbers when dingoes are exterminated.’

  ‘That’s fascinating. Can you cite studies to prove it?’

  ‘Sure. Come inside.’ The kids were in the kitchen making toast. ‘This is Abbey and Jake.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Del. Dusty padded over to Jake. ‘Is that one of your dingoes?’

  Andy snapped a photo.

  ‘Dusty’s not a dingo,’ said Jake. ‘He’s a kelpie.’

  ‘Ahh,’ said Del. ‘My mistake. He’s certainly a beautiful dog.’

  ‘Come through,’ said Kim, anxious to take the focus off Dusty. They followed her into the lounge room, where Kim had her laptop set up at a desk in the corner. She showed Del studies by Chris Johnson at James Cook University, Dr Thomas Newsome of Sydney University, and half-a-dozen more. ‘I’ll send you the links,’ she said. ‘Dingoes don’t just protect native animals. They protect plants too. Take a look at this.’

  Kim clicked through to the photos of her regeneration plots, before and after the dingoes’ release. ‘See the damage caused by browsing animals in these first shots? We had massive problems: deer, goats, wallabies, roos. They ate everything down, knocked over fences and tree guards. Rabbits nibbled the fresh shoots and dug up roots.’

  She scrolled through to the ‘after’ shots of thriving plantings and healthy saplings bursting with vigorous new growth. The contrast was plain.

  ‘All because of dingoes,’ said Kim. ‘Herbivores are much more wary now. They don’t hang round the flats, but keep to the cover of gullies and ridge tops. It makes regenerating the rainforest so much easier.’ As Del dutifully took notes, Kim relaxed a little. How great to make this sort of information public. The article might be a good thing after all. ‘If you like, I’ll take you and Andy out to see for yourselves.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Del. ‘But there’s another side to this, isn’t there? The farmers’ side. You know that old saying – the only good dingo is a dead dingo.’

  Kim did not know it, and it gave her a chill.

  ‘Emotions run pretty high on the subject. So much so that people have even warned me against writing this article.’

  Kim turned off the laptop, and wished Del had taken that most excellent advice.

  ‘I heard the dingoes have already killed some of your neighbours’ sheep.’

  Kim’s mouth went dry. She hadn’t expected news to travel so fast. Damn Mel and her big mouth. ‘Two sheep at She-Oak Springs were found dead yesterday,’ she said. ‘But there’s no conclusive proof that dingoes were responsible.’

  Del tilted her head and gave Kim a knowing look. ‘But it’s likely, isn’t it? The carcasses were partially eaten.’

  ‘Well, yes, but . . .’ The answer wasn’t coming out the way she meant it to.

  ‘I think we’ve finished here.’ Del closed her notebook. ‘How about we go bush now, and you can show me around.’

  Del spent a good two hours out in the field. She wanted to see everything. The creek, the regeneration sites, the soft-releas
e pens and the tracts of pristine rainforest along the northern boundary.

  ‘Will we see dingoes?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Kim. ‘They’re elusive at the best of times, and very shy of strangers.’ They finished the tour at a vantage point on the border of Tarringtops National Park. A wild luxuriance of virgin forest stretched southwards, clothing the hills in a mottled cloak of green. There was something timeless, almost holy, about the view, and it never failed to send a tingle down Kim’s spine.

  ‘Magnificent.’ Del’s voice was husky with emotion. ‘These forests feel ancient.’

  ‘I’ll show you a red cedar on the way back that’s at least three hundred years old. If people had built these rainforests, they’d be national treasures.’

  ‘There must be a fortune in timber here,’ said Del. ‘The trees are lucky to have you as their protector.’

  A warm glow of pride passed through her. Protector of Trees. A title worth fighting for.

  It was three o’clock before Kim waved Del and Andy goodbye, with a promise the article would be out the following Wednesday. As they left, they passed Taj coming up the drive.

  ‘Why was the Gazette here?’ Taj had a grim line to his mouth.

  ‘They’re doing a piece on rewilding Journey’s End. I didn’t have much choice but to talk to them,’ said Kim. ‘They were doing the story anyway, and at least people will get to hear our side. It went pretty well, although the reporter knew about the sheep killed next door.’

  ‘Dingoes did not kill them. I found this lodged in the spine of one of the sheep.’ Taj took something from his pocket and handed it to her.

  A bullet. It sat, small and deadly, in the palm of her hand, and Kim stiffened. ‘It was shot?’

  ‘They both were. In the body, not the head. Blood trails quickly bring foxes.’