by Catt Ford
Henry sat up and rubbed his chin, wishing he could have some hot water to shave and to make some tea. He felt helpless in the face of Jarrah’s abstraction and Dingo’s unwonted silence. He had no idea how to make himself useful or even what they were waiting for. He reached for his pack, meaning to retrieve a few biscuits for breakfast, but when Dingo shook his head, Henry’s hand dropped to his lap, and he just sat listening.
The song of unseen birds filtered through the stillness, and Henry suddenly became aware of a feeling of peace and oneness, as if he were a part of this land and the jungle around him.
Jarrah opened his eyes and looked directly at him. “You dream the knowledge.”
Henry opened his mouth but didn’t speak. He nodded slowly. He could never have put words to what he was feeling, but he knew just what Jarrah was talking about.
Jarrah smiled, his eyes still unearthly and his movements slow and deliberate as he picked up a piece of soft charcoal from the cold fire. With a few quick strokes on a flat grey rock, he brought the outline of the thylacine to life, lean, wolf-like, with its head raised and tail pointed. He drew fifteen stripes along the body. “This is not for everyone to see.”
Henry was aware that Dingo remained motionless, as he had been since Jarrah first moved.
Jarrah started to chant, and Henry caught the repetition of the word “kannunah” several times, but the rest was in some unfamiliar language. A glance at Dingo’s respectful face told him that he didn’t understand much more, although he seemed to know what Jarrah was doing.
Jarrah leaned forward and took Henry’s hand, placing it palm down on the drawing he had made of the tiger, pressing his hand to the smooth flatness of the rock. When he let go, Henry looked at his palm, where the faint lines of the stripes were transferred onto his skin.
Jarrah fell silent and gave a great sigh. He held out his hand to Dingo. “Hand me some of that water, mate.”
Henry expected him to drink, but Jarrah carefully poured the water over his exquisite drawing, obliterating it.
“Don’t—” Henry exclaimed, stretching out his marked hand.
Jarrah ignored him, washing the rock thoroughly ’til nothing remained. Then he looked up. “This is not for everyone to see. The ancestors permitted me to create a dream painting for you only, Dash Henry Percival-Smythe.”
“But why? And why couldn’t you save it? It was beautiful.”
“They allowed me to call to the animal’s spirit, and he chose to come to you. My people have walked this land side by side with the tiger for many years, many lifetimes. We did not hunt them; they did not hunt us; and yet we are both hunters. This dream painting is andjamun, sacred and dangerous. The kannunah would not come to you lightly. He has touched your spirit, and you have touched his. Let this knowledge live in your body. The creation ancestors who gave shape to this land and all who dwell here may give you dreams.”
Jarrah gave a little shiver and picked up the stone, hiding it under some dead leaves and other debris at the foot of one of the tree ferns. Then he proceeded to conceal all traces of the fire they had made, scattering the ash and blackened stones so cleverly that Henry couldn’t find them after he turned his head away and then looked back.
Jarrah stood up and stretched. “Right, mates. Well, I wish you good hunting. Here’s where we part company. I’ll be back here in twenty-eight days to pick you up. Don’t fucking get killed.” He stepped closer to Dingo and gave him a hug, showing no reluctance to embrace him tightly. Then he did the same for Henry, causing another powerful rush of emotion to rise up within him. “Take care.”
He bent to pick up his canteen and vanished into the brush. After a few minutes, Henry heard the roar of his truck coming to life and then it faded in the distance.
Dingo glanced at him curiously but didn’t speak, merely shouldering his rucksack and the one Jarrah had carried.
“What did that mean?” Henry asked.
“What did it feel like it meant?”
Henry struggled to settle his pack on his back and keep up with Dingo’s energetic stride. “It felt like… something spiritual.”
Dingo gave him a sidelong look and then smiled. “Nailed it in one, Dash, very good. It means you’ll see Tassie this trip.”
An explosion of excitement threatened to burst out of Henry’s chest. “What, you mean that mumbo jumbo of his actually meant something?”
Dingo stopped so short that Henry plowed into him. “Don’t do that. It was real, and you know it.”
Ashamed, Henry nodded, lowering his eyes. “It’s just—”
“I know, stiff upper lip and all that, and it’s frightfully ill-bred to believe that a dark-skinned native might actually know something we don’t, and faith is for the civilized on Sunday in church, after a good breakfast, but we don’t trot it out any other day of the week.”
His savage tone made Henry feel even more ashamed. “Look I didn’t mean to… to disrespect him, it’s just….”
Dingo started walking again, following some dim trail invisible to Henry. “Don’t brush up against that grass; it’ll cut you. For centuries before Europeans came here, the Aborigines managed not to kill off any species of animal, bird, or bug. They lived in harmony with the land. We can’t do that; we seem to need to impose our will on it, wrest every last bit of value from the earth in triumph. In one short century, we’ve managed to almost finish the tiger, and that’s not the only animal we’re trying to wipe out.”
“But I’m trying to save them!”
Dingo looked a bit milder as he glanced behind him. “I know. Jarrah knows that too, or he wouldn’t have asked his ancestors to let you see that.”
“I’ll try to be worthy of it,” Henry said humbly. “But what was that?”
“Ancient people tried to become one with the spirit of the land and the animals who roamed there. In Tasmania, Aborigines didn’t hunt the tiger, so it’s very rare that they left any images that they painted lying around. They believed you could call an animal to you by painting its image. That’s why there are so many rock paintings of kangaroos because they hunted them for food. With the kannunah, it’s different. They respected the tiger and wished it well. To paint its image as part of the ceremony was one thing; at the end they always erased it, so as not to harm the creature. Understand?”
“Not exactly,” Henry muttered.
“Jarrah learned from the old people. He is one of the holders of magic knowledge. He must have liked you because he created that painting to ensure that you’ll see Tassie this trip.”
“So we’ll be successful in our mission?” Henry was overjoyed, already imagining the triumph of his return with the specimens he sought, cute little tiger cubs tumbling about in his imagination as the desired mating at the zoo succeeded.
“You’ll see the tigers,” Dingo repeated.
“There’s a catch.”
“Isn’t there always?”
“Well, what is it?” Henry felt a little belligerent; wanting guarantees that what he had dreamed of so often would come to pass.
“If you could see the tiger, but it meant that Hodges was right there next to you seeing it also, what would you want?”
Henry nodded slowly. “I would forego the chance to get a sight of them.” He sighed deeply, hoping that he would not be forced to make that choice.
Dingo laughed. “Don’t worry, Gloomy Gus, you’ve won Jarrah’s stamp of approval. I’m sure you’ve only to sit down, and you’ll have Tassie tumbling into your lap, wanting to lick your face.”
Henry smiled at the thought, even though it meant all those teeth would be near his face. “I thought you said the full-blooded Aborigines had died out in 1878? So how is Jarrah a holder of magic knowledge?”
Dingo gave Henry another cryptic smirk. “I didn’t say that; you did. If you wanted to take the land of the people who lived there, wouldn’t it be a hell of a lot easier to pretend they didn’t exist anymore?”
“You mean Jarrah—”
&
nbsp; “Is a full-blooded Aborigine. Mary, however, isn’t, so neither are their kids. When she was a girl, Mary got shipped off to one of those schools where they tried to make natives white and failed dismally. Aborigines still walk amongst us; we just don’t acknowledge them as such.”
“Somewhat like the tiger.” Henry looked down at his hand and smiled. He could still see the faint stripes of Jarrah’s painting on his skin.
Dingo caught him looking and seemed pleased. “You got it.”
Henry wasn’t sure what to make of Dingo’s enigmatic smile, and as they started hiking farther into the forest it quickly vanished from his mind.
Chapter 17
He wasn’t athletic enough to withstand this kind of torture. Henry tried to wheeze as quietly as he could as he followed Dingo through the heavy shrub with his head down. The branches drew glistening stripes across him as he passed through, darkening his already damp shirt. The rain had stopped falling, for now, at least, but there wasn’t enough sunlight to dry out the forest. He was cold, and wet, and tired. And most unhappy.
He remembered what Jarrah had said about the fire—and he worried about how he was meant to dry the clothes overnight if they were unable to build one. He glowered at Dingo’s back as the other man moved easily before him. It was all right for him. He was used to this kind of life.
Maybe adventuring wasn’t everything he had made it out to be.
Henry’s muscles screamed with relief when the sun began to set and Dingo said they would make camp for the night. Henry was too tired to even ask about the tigers, and he worked in silence as he helped Dingo unpack the makeshift tent they would be sleeping in.
“You’re quiet,” Dingo said.
“Too tired to talk,” Henry said shortly.
Dingo nodded, deciding to leave whatever he was going to say. He did the majority of the work in assembling their shelter, doing the work in half the time that Henry would have taken.
“You rest for a minute,” Dingo said. “I’ll go and fetch us some fresh water.”
“I can help,” Henry said defensively.
“I know you can,” Dingo said casually. “But I don’t need help getting water, do I?”
Henry shrugged and crawled underneath the shelter of the canvas, which was spread over a number of branches and tied down to the roots of giant trees where they arched up from the ground. He listened to Dingo move off and wondered irritably how they could get warm during the night when the wind seemed to cut through the material like a knife.
He knew he was being difficult, and he tried to will himself into thinking more positively. It was only natural that it would start getting to him at some point; after all, this whole life was something new to him.
And then, Henry grew angry, but with himself. He had wanted this. More than anything. And not only had he been given the very thing he had been wishing for, but along with it came a beautiful man who seemed to see something in him Henry had never believed about himself. He was an idiot to be acting in such a way, like a churlish, ungrateful child bored with a new toy.
His palm burned, and Henry sat up to examine it. There wasn’t much of Jarrah’s drawing left upon his skin, but what there was stood out in stark contrast to his natural coloring. He closed his eyes and remembered the rush of natural power that had seemed to course throughout his veins when the thylacine had first been marked upon him. It came back with such a strength that he almost jumped to his feet, and a moan escaped from his lips.
The surge dissipated, but the feeling remained. Shakily, Henry stood. Fingers trembling, he undid the buttons of his shirt and laid the damp cloth across the top of the tent. He knew as he stripped down to nothing that he should be cold, but he felt warm.
He waited for Dingo to return.
Dingo had to restrain himself from whistling a greeting as he stepped out of the shrub and almost stumbled into their camp. Straightaway he could see Henry’s wet clothing strung out across the top of the tent. He knew it wouldn’t dry at all, not even by morning, but he could understand why the other man would want to change. Perhaps they could break early tomorrow at daylight when smoke wouldn’t be as discernible to build a fire and get them more comfortable.
“Haroo,” he called softly. “Dash, you there?”
An arm emerged from within the tent, and Dingo’s jaw dropped open when Henry stepped out. Completely naked, his skin had a greenish cast from the weak light that managed to infiltrate the canopy of the forest. It made him look ethereal, and if Dingo had been a more superstitious soul he would have thought that he had stepped through to another time with another being entirely.
Henry’s skin looked even creamier, more delectable. His arms hung loosely by his sides; the dark bush below his navel threw a shadow to conceal what lay between his legs. He took another step forward, and the lines of his beautiful cock could now be seen.
Dingo swallowed heavily. “Well, you know how to keep a man on his toes.”
Henry smiled. “Undress,” he commanded softly.
Dingo didn’t need to be told twice. His hands were steady and confident as he unbuttoned his shirt and threw it on top of Henry’s, up on the tent. He was already hard as he stepped out of his trousers, and although he was tempted, he didn’t touch himself as he wanted Henry’s body against his to be the first thing he felt.
Henry walked toward him soundlessly and pulled Dingo closer to him by the scruff of his neck. Although the passion between them was as extreme as before, his kiss was gentle, yearning, slow. Dingo was already straining, but he let Henry take the lead. Entwined, they moved over to lean against a tree. Dingo worried that the bark would be digging into his back, and it should have been uncomfortable, but Henry didn’t seem to feel it. Dingo concentrated on the feeling of Henry writhing in his arms, the silky hardness of their cocks as they rubbed against each other, and the hairs on Henry’s thighs sliding and catching against his own.
Dingo wanted to speak, but if this was a spell they were under, he didn’t want to break it.
It was Henry who cut through the silence, moaning his name as he twisted within Dingo’s embrace to face the tree, presenting himself. His chest rubbed against the wood, making his already-sensitive nipples tingle with pleasure. Dingo’s chest was tight against his back; he could feel Dingo’s cock rubbing against the valley of his arse. His eyes flew open as he remembered the use of the oil in the hotel room, but he didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want this moment to be interrupted.
Dingo was obviously thinking the same thing. “Dash, give me a minute—”
“No,” Henry said fervently. “Don’t stop.”
“I’ll hurt you,” Dingo told him.
“I trust you.” Emboldened, Henry pressed himself back against Dingo, practically trapping him. He clenched his cheeks, feeling the blunt head tantalizingly close to his entrance.
Dingo cursed under his breath.
“Take me,” Henry muttered, squeezing again. He smiled to himself as he felt Dingo’s hand run along his hip. He heard him spit into his palm and moaned again as a damp finger slid over his opening.
“You’re still going to feel it,” Dingo warned.
“I want to.”
“You’re one mad bugger, Dash, but I can’t resist you.”
Henry loved that. He had never felt like he was irresistible before… and to have it come from someone like Dingo, who seemed to have everybody in the palm of his hand whenever he interacted with them? He gasped as Dingo entered him with one hand on the small of his back to help keep him steady as he tried to push himself in with as little pain as possible.
“Should I stop?” Dingo asked anxiously.
“Don’t you dare,” Henry said through gritted teeth, afraid he would pull out.
Dingo’s fingers were now pressing on both of his hips as he drove deeper into Henry. Buried to the hilt, he kissed Henry’s shoulder. Impatient, Henry pushed back against him. Dingo took that as a sign for continuance and began to pump himself fully against his
lover.
Henry grunted, his face pressed against the bark of the tree. He slapped his palm above his head, using it to balance himself as Dingo continued to rock against him. It was more painful without the oil, but Henry wouldn’t have wanted it any other way at that point in time. It surprised him how forward he had been in seeking this out, how insistent he had been to have Dingo right at this very moment, without hesitation. Fanciful thoughts made him wonder if somehow being in the thick of nature was having some sort of primordial effect upon him, making him remember the call of the wild that humans had gradually become immune to over the years as they retreated into civilization. Had he awakened the beast within himself?
He couldn’t believe that it was impossible to switch off his mind, even when being buggered senseless against a tree in the colonies. But then Dingo shifted a little, his angle changed, and Henry’s thoughts ceased as eruptions of pleasure fanned through his body and straight into his brain. All he was aware of was Dingo’s body against his, the satisfying fullness within him, and the feeling that shot through his heart when Dingo’s arm flung over his and their hands gripped. They rode together, hands joined—bodies joined. Henry felt enveloped body and soul by Dingo as his other arm snaked around his waist and took him in hand, stroking Henry in unison with his thrusts.
Henry burst through the gaps in Dingo’s fingers and couldn’t stop from crying out as his lover mercilessly continued to pump him. It was too much, too much pleasure, his knees were giving out, the only things keeping him upright were the tree and the weight of Dingo behind him….
Dingo cried out hoarsely, and Henry felt a new warmth spread within him. Dingo sagged against his back, murmuring his name. They couldn’t move. Sweating, shuddering, and gasping, they remained locked within each other.
“Dingo—”
“Dash.” It was a statement to a query that had been incomplete.