Dash and Dingo

by Catt Ford

  Jarrah’s first shot nicked the top can and sent it toppling to the ground. He missed the second, although not by much, and with the third took out the bottom can on the right hand side.

  “Slipping, Jarrah?” Dingo teased. He held the gun pointed at the ground until Jarrah had set up another pyramid.

  “No one can match your prowess, oh mighty white hunter.” Jarrah delivered the jibe as if they had a long-standing routine of rivalry.

  Dingo took up his stance. He hit the top edge of the first can and put bullets cleanly through the other two, sending them to the ground. He reloaded the gun while Henry watched and Jarrah rebuilt his little pyramid.

  “Let’s see what you can do with it, Professor.”

  Henry hadn’t planned on showing off or even shooting the gun, but the hated nickname delivered so casually brought to mind certain other unpleasant occasions where he’d been teased for wearing glasses or being “bookish.”

  Carefully he brought the gun up and braced the butt against his shoulder, sighting down the barrel before squeezing the trigger.

  His first shot kicked up one of the bottom cans, sending the other two flying up into the air. In quick succession, he squeezed off two more shots, tracing the arc of each can, making them spin in midair before they fell to the earth.

  The silence that followed felt respectful to Henry, and he almost smiled as he lowered the rifle.

  “That wasn’t a happy accident, was it?” Jarrah asked.

  “You know how to shoot!” Dingo accused him.

  Henry shrugged. “One learns, living in the country.”

  “You bloody Pom!”

  Henry winced as Dingo buffeted his shoulder in glee.

  “You’ve been holding out on me, mate! Did you see that, Jarrah? The boy can shoot!”

  “I’m not blind, Dingo.” Jarrah went forward and stacked up another set of cans. “That wasn’t a fluke then, Henry?”

  “It’s not often I miss,” Henry muttered.

  “Did your Dad take you hunting then? How much did you bag?” Dingo asked curiously.

  “I’ve never shot anything… living.”

  Dingo gave a short nod. Henry almost laughed; his seeming approval was so different from his own father’s disappointment in Henry’s failure in this arena.

  “Let’s see it again.”

  Henry broke open the breech and reloaded. This time around, he sent each can into the air with one shot, nailing it with a second shot before it fell.

  “Jarrah, toss a can up into the air,” Dingo suggested.

  Patiently Henry shot each can at the top of its arc as Jarrah sent them flying. “Satisfied?”

  “Well done, Dash. Can you shoot a pistol as well?”

  Henry nodded. “Of course.”

  “Brilliant. That’s a load off.”

  The tone of respect in Dingo’s voice was almost enough reward to erase the memory of the long summer afternoons spent shooting with his father grimly standing over him. But it was best not to dwell upon that. Far better to bask in the glow of Dingo’s smile and think about how he might be rewarded later on.

  Henry blushed, wondering if it was the Australian air that was making him have such an abundance of lascivious thoughts, but as Dingo bent over the front seat of the truck to retrieve something, Henry realized that it all had to do with the man who had dragged him halfway around the world.

  Once again, he had to stop the self-doubt from sinking in, of what would happen once their adventure was over. It was all too easy to think it could go on forever, but as all things did, it would surely end. And Dingo lived on the opposite end of the earth.

  “What are you thinking about?” Dingo asked.

  “You,” Henry said, forgetting to self-censor.

  He could have almost sworn he saw Dingo blush, or at least start to. It gave him a boost of esteem, to see what he often felt himself displayed upon his paramour’s face.

  “You do go on sometimes, Dash,” Dingo said, but when he lifted his face again he was grinning happily.

  The thylacine was temporarily forgotten again as Henry thought of their night in the hotel together. He would almost give up the whole expedition to lock himself away with Dingo again, but he believed there would be more nights like that again. He had to now focus on what had fascinated him for long years: this almost-mythical creature in the wilds of a wilder land.

  Dingo disappeared around the side of the house in search of Jarrah. Henry cleaned the pistol he had been given, readying it for the next time he might have to use it. He stressed the might in his own thoughts—they were not hunters going in search of prey; they were going out there to save them. It sounded a bit gormless, really, but he much preferred thinking that way about them.

  He almost jumped out of his skin when Mary approached him from behind and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Mary! You gave me a start!”

  She laughed, her teeth a contrast against her dark skin. It made her smile all the brighter. “You ready to go?”

  Henry nodded. “Just waiting for the others, I assume.”

  Mary tossed her head. “That Dingo, he’s probably looking for the beer.”

  “I think Dingo would feel it most un-Australian to spend time without beer,” Henry suggested.

  “You know him well.” She peered at him for confirmation.

  Henry turned away, certain his face could be read more easily than any book. And he was right, because Mary laughed again. It was more tender this time, though.

  “Are you Dingo’s fella, then?”

  Once again, the fact that everybody seemed to know about Dingo astounded Henry. He wasn’t sure whether he was astounded that so many people were cognizant of this usually most-secret information, or more importantly, that nobody seemed to care. But these were Dingo’s friends.

  Mary stood patiently, awaiting his response.

  “Uh-well,” he stuttered, “I guess, when you look at it—”

  “I haven’t got all day,” Mary said impatiently. “I asked Jarrah, and he got all funny too. Said it was none of our business, and Dingo would tell us when he wanted to.”

  Henry frowned. “Dingo didn’t tell you?”

  “He never tells us. Most of the time, we have to get it out of the other fella.”

  “The… other fella?” Henry replied weakly.

  Mary seemed to recognize that she had committed a major faux pas. “Well… not that there have been that many—”

  Henry thought of all the other men whom he had met that shared such an easy familiarity with Dingo. Was he to believe that this man he was falling for might have fucked his way across the globe? It was a horrible thought, to think that he was just one in a long line of many, when for him Dingo had been in a queue that could be counted on one hand.

  “Mary.”

  It was a new voice. Henry peered over Mary’s shoulder as she turned to find Dingo standing behind them with another bag in his hand.

  “Yes, Dingo?”

  “Dash here is my fella.”

  Satisfied and happy with the outcome, Mary turned back to Henry. “You must be special. Like I said, he never tells us.”

  “Are you happy now, Mary?” Dingo said good-naturedly as she passed him on her way back to the house.

  “Mmm hmm,” she hummed wickedly, giving him a swat on the bum. Dingo postured as if to chase her, and she sprinted away, laughing all the while.

  “So—” Dingo threw the bag into the back of the truck.

  “I’m your fella, then?” Henry asked.

  Dingo peered at him beneath the brim of his hat. “I normally say there’s no such thing as stupid questions. But that’s a bloody stupid question.”

  Henry’s air supply was cut off as Dingo locked lips upon his. He could taste the beads of sweat above his mouth—so tangy, so irrepressibly masculine, and all Dingo—that he was afraid his bodily impulses would lead to them shaming themselves out in the open if they took control.

  Jarrah interrupted
them as he pushed past them to load a final set of bags upon the truck bed. “Hope you two aren’t going to be like this the whole bloody trip.”

  Their lips parted, but their bodies remained pressed against each other. Dingo had to twist Henry slightly in order to face his friend. “Afraid you’re going to be lonely? You could bring Mary.”

  The woman in question appeared with her children in tow. Henry tried to move away from Dingo, but Dingo was having none of it. The children seemed interested in what Dingo was doing with the man they had been introduced to this morning, but only for the fact that they had never seen their uncle like that before.

  “He’s your uncle Dingo’s fella,” Mary said matter-of-factly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  The children nodded solemnly and then proceeded to jump wildly into and upon the truck bed.

  “I’m not going where there’s no privy or tap,” Mary told the men. “My bush days are over.”

  “You’re my queen,” Jarrah said, love-struck.

  She nuzzled into him. “Right.” Then another side of the queen was displayed as she drew herself up regally and bellowed, “Boys! Off the truck right now!” They scampered down and raced obediently to her side.

  Dingo finally allowed Henry his private space again and moved to kiss Mary. “Bye, love.”

  “Take care of yourselves. And Dingo?”

  He turned back. “Yeah?”

  “You make sure Jarrah comes home safe. Or else I’ll cut off your balls and wear them as a necklace.”

  Henry could tell this was no idle threat, even though it seemed to have been made many times and probably with the same level of ferocity.

  “Righty-O,” Dingo told her, with a bow of his hat.

  Henry also offered his goodbyes, which Mary returned with a far less threatening attitude than she had afforded Dingo. The two men leapt into the truck to give husband and wife some semblance of privacy in their farewell, although Henry couldn’t resist sneaking a look through the side mirror and catching them in a passionate kiss. Guilty, he looked down to see Dingo’s hand coming down and resting upon his knee.

  He placed his own over it.

  Chapter 15

  On the outskirts of a small town called Tyenna, they quickly disappeared into the wild as if they had never been a part of civilization at all. The forest became denser the farther they drove into it. Mouth agog, Henry stared out the window as the landscape moved past slowly. When he had researched Tasmania before leaving England, he had assumed based on the descriptions that the forests would be akin to those he had seen back home, but these trees were an entirely different thing altogether. Bunched together they formed a canopy above their heads, and the sky could only be seen in brief snatches between the foliage. Giant tree ferns pursued a tortuously twisted path between the eucalyptus trees, draped with other plants that seemed to enjoy a parasitical existence upon the fleshy stems. The meager amount of sunlight that reached the brush underneath meant that the plants had grown lush and tall in order to reach a share of it; the lack of sunlight resulted in a change of temperature that made Henry shiver slightly.

  “I thought,” Henry said, having to clear his throat as it had been a long time since he last spoken, “that the last tiger killed in the wild was a few years ago at Mawbanna.”

  “You know your stuff,” Jarrah said.

  Dingo grinned at Henry. “Mawbanna’s near Burnie.”

  “Oh!” Henry said, his eyes lighting up in recognition. “That’s why you made Hodges think we were going there!”

  Dingo tapped the side of his nose. “Exactly.”

  “Do you really think he’s gullible enough to go there?” Henry asked hesitantly.

  “Why?”

  “It’s just that… if that was where the last tiger was caught, you would think there may have been more sightings from that region. And that’s not where the reports are coming from.”

  “We’re hoping Hodges doesn’t know that.”

  “Hoping?” Henry’s tone suggested that it wasn’t exactly the best strategy to base your whole expedition upon.

  “As far as we know, he just knows we’re up to something. So he’s following us and relying upon our information.”

  Henry knew that Dingo had the most experience with Hodges, but he was also aware that Dingo tended to underestimate his nemesis. He self-consciously touched the burn scar on his wrist; he was only too aware of just how ruthless Hodges could be.

  How could Dingo be so nonchalant about it? He sensed there was more to their history together, and somehow Hank was all tied into it. Henry wasn’t sure if he would ever be told the full story, no matter how much he thought about it.

  So he let his criticism fall away and noticed that Jarrah was watching Dingo with interest to see how he would take the questioning of his methods. Dingo’s jaw was set; he was restraining himself from saying something. Henry looked back out the window, hoping that it would soon blow over.

  The small dirt path upon which the truck was riding was obviously only kept clear by the infrequent drivers that came along it. The branches and plants that clung to the fleshy tree ferns were rapidly trying to reclaim it for Mother Nature, every now and again they were so close that they temporarily pushed through the window and whacked either him or Jarrah. Dingo, who had most likely given up his usual window seat for this reason, remained relatively safe from their predatory intentions.

  The branches and leaves were wet with rain that couldn’t dry as the sun wasn’t reaching them. After a few minutes in the thick of it, Henry was uncomfortably damp.

  Dingo took pity on him. “You know, you can close the window.”

  Of course he could, but with the damp there was also humidity. If he shut the window, they would begin to boil. “It’s all right.” Henry shrugged.

  Dingo’s knee jolted against his as they hit a rut in the track. Once again, his arm rested behind Henry’s neck, and Henry took comfort from it.

  “You know,” Henry said in awe, “I don’t think you could find enough space in England to fit this whole forest.”

  “There are parts of this wilderness where no white man has ever stepped,” Jarrah said, grimacing. “And I hope they never do.”

  “Why not?” Henry asked. “Think of what could be discovered!”

  “Think of what could be destroyed,” Dingo murmured. He looked at Jarrah, and they exchanged a gaze of shared pain.

  Henry thought of his mother country and what she had done in the name of colonization. It all seemed so noble on their end; Henry had never actually met anybody who had to deal with their way of life being changed and affected by how their country had eventually ceased to be their own.

  And he knew that he couldn’t justify it, not to Jarrah, or Mary. Probably not even to Dingo, even though at some point his own ancestors would have also been part of those who came over from England in big boats with big dreams, no matter what the cost.

  The thylacine was just one of a very long list. And the list grew exponentially as you took into account all of England’s history and its role on other soil around the world.

  “I guess that is one of the drawbacks of discovery,” he said finally.

  “That’s a nice way of putting it,” Jarrah said.

  Henry wisely kept his mouth shut. There was an untouched record here he wasn’t fully aware of, and he didn’t think he could give voice enough to defend or to apologize. He felt ashamed of his silence but didn’t know how to proceed.

  They drove in silence the rest of the way.

  Chapter 16

  Henry was glad of the fire; once the sun had gone down, the humidity lost the heat of the day, and the damp was merely cold. He lay propped on one elbow, staring into the flames that Jarrah kept to a modest size, rarely feeding in a stick when it relapsed into embers. He glanced around to find Jarrah and Dingo sitting away from the fire and staring into the darkened jungle.

  Dingo caught his movement and said, “Best not to stare into t
he fire, Dash.”

  Henry nodded. His eyes had taken a moment to adjust to the darkness when he looked away from the bright light, and he realized what a handicap it was. He shifted so that he was sitting closer to Dingo, also looking outward.

  “This is the last night you can build a fire,” Jarrah commented. The embers collapsed with a shower of sparks, and he did not add another stick. “Once you’re out there, it’s too easy to spot, if anyone should be following.”

  “What’ll we do for tea?” Henry asked, although he was thinking more of the tiny circle of warmth at the center of the vast chill that surrounded them. Already, just a few feet further away from the campfire, he had begun to shiver.

  “Guess we’ll just have to huddle for warmth instead,” Dingo teased, chuckling at the quick look Henry threw at Jarrah.

  Henry didn’t deign to answer, but an inner heat seemed to spread through him at Dingo’s words. Besides, Jarrah didn’t seem to be paying attention to them anyway. “Shouldn’t we get some sleep?”

  “I’ll take first watch,” Jarrah said.

  Henry shifted his ground cloth a bit closer to Dingo’s, but he didn’t have the nerve to actually touch him. He lay down and peered up at the canopy but could see nothing, not leaf, nor cloud, nor star. It was like being inside a building and yet completely different.

  A low crooning lulled him to sleep as he wondered groggily what Jarrah was singing about.

  When he awoke to the eerie green light that penetrated the jungle by dawn, Jarrah was still sitting by the blackened rocks where they had made the fire, his eyes dreamy and distant as if he were in a trance.

  Dingo stepped quietly from behind a screen of foliage, holding three dripping canteens in his hands, apparently having gone to refill them. He smiled at Henry but put a finger before his lips when Henry would have spoken.