Dash and Dingo

by Catt Ford

  “Mr Percival-Smythe! You can’t—you can’t go in there!”

  She circled her desk and took up a position in front of Professor Larwood’s door, holding her arms out as if to prevent Henry’s passage.

  “Why, our goddess Diana. Anyone would think you weren’t happy to see me!” Henry grinned as he put his hands ’round her waist and picked her up, moving her bodily out of his way, all the while wondering where he got the balls to do that. The temerity, he amended.

  “Mr. Percival-Smythe!” Miss Winton gasped, patting her heaving bosom with one trembling hand.

  Henry almost laughed to see the newly worshipful expression on her face, as if he had been transformed instantly into some manly hero, burst from between the covers of a romance novel to sweep her off her feet. Clearly Miss Winton had cast herself in the part of the damsel in distress and was enjoying her foray into the realms of fantasy. Suddenly he had an inkling of how Dingo must have reveled in his brash behavior. This was fun!

  “Miss Winton.” He acknowledged her politely. Carried along as if he had imbibed some of Dingo’s intoxicating personality, he pulled open the door in time to see flashbulbs going off, and Professor Larwood standing behind his desk, holding the piece of rock for the reporters in white-gloved hands. His piece of rock.

  Henry stood there for a moment, listening to what Professor Larwood was telling them.

  “This rock is streaked with osmiridium, a very rare mineral, found in only a few places on earth. It’s quite valuable, a natural alloy of osmium and iridium. Our geological department has tested the sample, and there are traces of other platinum group metals present as well. It is resistant to corrosion and useful in a number of manufacturing operations that require high-wear metals—”

  “But that’s not the most interesting thing about that piece of rock,” Henry interrupted.

  The reporters turned to look at him, sensing a scoop. One of them spoke up. “Kevin Haywood here, London Daily News. Who are you?”

  “My name is Henry Percival-Smythe, with a dash,” Henry said with a grin.

  Professor Larwood was giving him a warning scowl, but he approached the desk in spite of it.

  “May I?” Without waiting for Larwood to answer, Henry took the flat piece of stone from him, caressing it with his fingers.

  “This is the truly fascinating discovery,” Henry said, turning the stone around so the dully glittering minerals were hidden from view.

  “I don’t see anything,” Mr. Haywood said, leaning closer to peer at the surface of the streaky stone.

  “Keep looking,” Henry advised.

  The reporters gathered closer, and Henry turned the stone slightly so the light played off the surface.

  “My word, what is that—that animal?” one of the photographers asked.

  “It’s a thylacine, a Tasmanian tiger, now sadly extinct. There is only one known to be alive yet, living caged in the Hobart Zoo in Tasmania,” Henry explained.

  “A pity about the animal, to be sure,” Professor Larwood interjected, a ferocious scowl on his face. “But in the light of day, what possible use would keeping a predator like that alive, especially as it was known to worry sheep—”

  Mr. Haywood ignored him. “What, in your opinion, Mr. Percival-Smythe, is the true importance of this stone, if not for the traces of a valuable mineral?”

  “This is a dream painting on rock, executed by the native Aboriginal people, more than one thousand years ago,” Henry said softly, struck once again by the sacrifice Jarrah had made in giving it to him. All for the tiger.

  “How can you tell that?” Mr. Haywood asked skeptically. “Anyone might pick up a piece of charcoal and scratch out a crude drawing yesterday and claim it was thousands of years old.”

  Henry licked his thumb and swiped it over the painting, while the reporters gasped in shock. “A thin coating of silica seeped out over hundreds of years. It has protected the charcoal from the elements all these years, and now the painting is embedded in the stone, preserving it. Our geological department—” he bowed his head sardonically in Professor Larwood’s direction, “—will surely be able to date this stone and give us a more precise estimate as to the true age of the painting.”

  Mr. Haywood seemed to be the self-appointed leader of the reporters; at least none of them challenged his dominance, merely scribbling notes as Henry spoke. “And where did you get this rock? Rumors have circulated that this college mounted an expedition to locate and secure a pair of the tigers and bring them back to the London zoo for breeding. If that was really your quest, it’s fair to say that you failed, isn’t it?”

  Henry shook his head and laughed. “The goal of any institution of higher learning is the collection of information. My goal was to discover the truth about the existence of this creature.” His expression became dreamy as he remembered his first sight of the tiger. “Sadly, I’m afraid it’s too late for the thylacine; their day has come and gone. There is a remote possibility that in some of the more impassable areas of Tasmania some of the animals may still eke out an existence, but with development and farming, it would be astounding if the tiger stood a chance of survival. That knowledge alone is worth the price of the journey, as it should stand to enlighten us in our treatment of the fauna of any land of which we are the custodians.”

  Henry continued. “The truth is that this piece of art was given to me by a full-blooded Aboriginal native, still living on the island in conditions of disgrace. Our empire has relegated these native peoples to a second-class existence in their own country!”

  “Is it true they wear bones through their noses and practice cannibalism?” asked another reporter.

  “That’s a fairytale. Thanks to our gracious government, the Aborigines are well educated and wear clothing just as you or I do. They purchase their food at the shops and showed no interest in getting a taste of any member of the expedition.” Henry’s lips curled sarcastically at the questions.

  “Right. Well, back to the painting. What do you plan to do with it?” Mr. Haywood asked sharply.

  “As the British people have such an interest in archaeological artifacts, I’d hoped that after suitable studies were carried out upon the specimen that the college would see fit to mount an exhibit open to the public. In our archives, we possess photographs, hides of the thylacine, bones and teeth. Little is known about how they live in their natural habitat. One of my contacts in Tasmania has provided me with a movie of the thylacine in captivity, which would surely interest the British people….”

  As Henry continued to speak, he was aware of Larwood’s enraged flush slowly turning his face to purple. But he couldn’t stop now. He had gotten into the habit of asking himself what Dingo would do in this situation.

  Granted, the answer almost always turned out to be that Dingo would throw caution to the winds and do whatever he thought would most provoke the nearest authority figure, but Henry loved playing this new role. And in some odd way, it made him feel just a little closer to Dingo.

  Eventually the reporters’ curiosity was sated, even when Henry had to inform them that he couldn’t answer all their questions, simply saying that more research was needed, and they filed out. Henry shook each of their hands and collected the cards they pressed on him, promising to keep them apprised of his next expedition, whenever that should happen.

  Finally, the room was empty, save for Henry and Professor Larwood. He turned to face his erstwhile mentor, mentally girding his loins in Dingo-inspired bravado.

  “Mr. Percival-Smythe,” Professor Larwood started icily. “The governing board of this college came to the decision that the ridiculous adventure that you set off on was not to be mentioned to the press, seeing what a lamentable end it came to. And yet, you have the audacity to burst uninvited into my office, intruding yourself into an appointment to which you were not included, disseminating information—”

  “Professor Larwood,” Henry interrupted boldly. “I am the person who went to Tasmania, and as such,
I am the man in the best position to judge what information should be shared. Do you truly think it’s in the best interests of that country to start a gold rush for an obscure mineral of dubious value? What do you think will happen to the land there? The animals? The people?”

  “The resources of the British Empire are truly inexhaustible, and I see no reason why you should consider yourself to be the only reliable authority on how they should be used,” Professor Larwood said coldly. “If the Crown should deem it to be desirable to exploit this find, that would be left up to Parliament and the King. I very much doubt that they would be calling upon your expertise to decide this matter.”

  “Well, they certainly won’t be if they have no idea of my existence!”

  “Considering the disgraceful spectacle you made of yourself and this college in the Australian press, I’m astonished that you had the temerity to show your face here again!” Larwood opened a drawer and drew forth a newspaper, slapping the folded paper with a force that amused Henry before tossing it onto his desk.

  “I didn’t reveal that the college had sent me to Tasmania,” Henry reminded him.

  “You didn’t need to. A modicum of research would have revealed to any curious reporter that you were in our employ when you set out upon this foolhardy adventure. You managed to link the name of this fine place to a failure! A failure! Ealing College is not accustomed to failure! Especially in public!” Larwood shouted.

  “I’m beginning think it was a bad idea that I turned this specimen over to you at all.” Henry stretched his hand out to take up the painting.

  “Don’t touch that!” Larwood exclaimed. “It belongs to the college. However mistakenly, we funded your trip, and unless you repay all expenses related to your pointless… spree, you will be working to pay it back for a very long time, Mr. Percival-Smythe.”

  “What expenses?” Henry scoffed. “Dingo arranged for our journey to Australia so that the college was not put the expense of paying for my passage. And I paid for my trip back to England. I’ll give you my personal check to replace the camera, gladly. I’m terribly sorry it was damaged, although by rights, the Australian government should be obliged to pay for that, as its agents are the ones who caused its destruction!”

  “I’m certain that Sir Percival-Smythe will be most interested to hear how you’ve carried on here today, Mr. Percival-Smythe,” Professor Larwood said with a malicious smile. Invoking the name of Henry’s father had always worked to cow the young man into compliance in the past, and he took a perverse satisfaction in trotting out that well-worn scare tactic now.

  Henry picked up his rock painting, wondering why he had always been so anxious to toe the line in the past. He knew precisely what he was doing, although it felt like taking a step out upon an uncertain precipice with a steep drop below. “Call me Dash. And tell him anything you please. After today, my behavior, good or bad, is of no concern to either of you.”

  He headed for the door, carrying his prize.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Henry paused, his hand upon the knob. “It means that as of today, I no longer work for you, Professor Lardarse.”

  “Why—why—you—you can’t—just up and leave—” Professor Larwood huffed. “You’re fired!” he shrieked as Henry wrenched the door open.

  Miss Winton fell into the room from where she’d been eavesdropping with her ear pressed against the door, her eyes agog.

  “Pardon me, Miss Winton.” Politely, Henry put a hand on her elbow to steady her. “Good day to you both. I shall vacate my office immediately.”

  Henry ran lightly down the stairs, barely feeling the wound in his thigh, buoyed along by the excitement of the scene. Damn it! Dingo might have something with his devil-may-care attitude after all. It was quite—exhilarating to tell the old so-and-so where to get off!

  Henry stowed the rock painting under his jacket to protect it from the rain and made a dash for his own building. Dash! He laughed at the irony of it.

  When he got there, Hill was standing guard in front of his door, holding a cardboard carton with a few of his books in it. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Percival-Smythe, but Professor Larwood says you’re not to return to your office. You’re to be escorted off the university premises immediately.”

  Thanking his luck that he had kept the painting hidden under his jacket, Henry asked, “In that case, would you mind just fetching my raincoat out of the room, please, Hill? And my hat. Oh, and my umbrella.”

  Struggling between his impulse to give Henry the cold shoulder and his natural inclination to be of service, Hill shifted from foot to foot. Finally he set the carton upon the ground. “I’ll only be a minute, sir.”

  When Hill had vanished into his office, Henry swiftly bent down and concealed the painting under the pile of books in the carton. He stood up and held out his hands for his things. “Thank you, Hill.”

  Hill held onto the coat and hat. “I’m sorry, sir, but Professor Larwood asked that I have you remove your coat first.”

  Smirking, Henry did so, doing a slow turn for Hill’s benefit. “I assure you, the family silver is safe from me, Hill.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Hill said gruffly. He held the raincoat so that Dash could slip it on, handing over the hat and umbrella.

  Henry snapped the brim down, like Dingo always did, and pulled it low over his eyes. He took the umbrella and smiled at Hill. “Tell me, Hill, do I look the part of the dashing explorer?”

  Hill seemed to feel safer washing his hands of the whole affair. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “No worries,” Henry said. He stooped and picked up the carton. “Cheerio.”

  Walking down the hallway for the last time, and then down the stairs, Henry felt a moment of sadness, not so much for the place or the people, but for the relics of the tiger he left behind. He’d spent so much time with them, holding the pelt in his hands, stroking the fur, dreaming of an improbable animal in an improbable land. That would be what he missed most out of his mingy job.

  But then he realized that the memories of actually seeing the tiger, smelling it, watching the family together in the wild, was an experience that could never be taken from him. The musty pelts could remain behind within the archives of the college. He had witnessed the tiger in person, something that, tragically, would most likely prove all too rare in the coming years.

  The thought of what his father would say about all this didn’t deter him at all. Henry felt that after today’s adventure, his father’s disapproval would never affect him quite the same way.

  It was a good thing he was a frugal man, Henry thought, as he unlocked the door to his flat. It would be some months before he was forced to figure out what he was going to do next. He had always refused an allowance from his father, although his father had seemed to think that the modest way he lived was not at all suitable for a Percival-Smythe.

  He locked the door behind him and turned on the fire before taking off his dripping hat and coat and hanging them in the hallway. He dug out the rock painting and settled into his chair, staring dreamily into the fire, holding the weight of the stone upon his lap, stroking over the stripes of the mythical animal.

  He wondered what Dingo was doing now. And when he would ever see him again. The man had gotten into his blood, and Henry was suddenly stricken with a grief he’d been staving off ever since his return. Their lives had been inextricably bound together, not only by the sharing of their bodies, but by each owing the other his very life, several times over.

  The surge of power that had carried him through the morning now deserted him, and Henry sagged in his chair, leaning his head against the cushioned back, feeling that he’d give anything to hear Dingo’s voice once again.

  Just then the phone rang, and Henry put his rock painting carefully onto the table by his elbow. He picked up the phone, expecting the worst: his father in a cold rage, his mother ready to induce guilt with her lachrymose reproaches, possibly Professor Larwood, threate
ning recriminations for making off with college property.

  Instead, the line crackled with a voice with an Australian accent.

  “Dash! How are you, old man?”

  “Dingo!” Henry gasped. “Dingo!”

  “Ready for another adventure?”

  “Too right,” said Dash.

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  Catt Ford

  Sean Kennedy

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Catt Ford

  lives in front of the computer monitor, in another world where her imaginary gay friends obey her every command. She likes cats, chocolate, swing dancing, sleeping, Monty Python, Aussie friends, being silly, spinning other realities with words, and sea glass. She dislikes caterpillars, cigarette smoke, and rude people who think the F-word (as in faggot, or bundle of sticks) is acceptable. A frustrated perfectionist, she comforts herself with the legend about the weavers of Persian rugs always including one mistake so as not to anger the gods, although she has no need to include a mistake on purpose. One always slips through. Writing fiction has filled a need for clever conversations, only possible when one is in control of both sides, and erotic romances, where everything for the most part turns out happily ever after.

  Visit Catt’s blog at http://catt-ford.livejournal.com/.

  Sean Kennedy

  lives in the second-most isolated city in the world, so it’s just as well he has his imagination for company when real-life friends are otherwise occupied. He has far too many ideas and wishes he had the power to feed them directly from his brain into the laptop so they won’t get lost in the ether.

  Visit Sean’s web site at http://www.seankennedybooks.com/.