Forest Spirit

by David Laing

  For Wendy, who always believed, for Robyn,

  who always insisted, and for Shadow, always a

  source of inspiration.

  Forest Spirit

  By David Laing

  Published by JoJo Publishing

  ‘Yarra’s Edge’

  2203/80 Lorimer Street

  Docklands VIC 3008

  Australia

  Email: jo-media@bigpond.net.au or visit www.jojopublishing.com

  © 2008 JoJo Publishing

  No part of this printed or video publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner:

  JoJo Publishing

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data

  Laing, David

  Forest Spirit

  ISBN 9780987410368 (ePub.)

  Target Audience: For upper primary to lower secondary school age.

  A823.4

  Editor: Susan Cutsforth

  Designer / typesetter: Rob Ryan @ Z Design Media

  David Laing spent a large part of his life as a teacher and school principal working in South Australia, Tasmania and the Northern Territory.

  He always wanted to be a full time writer, except when he was about 7 years old – his ambition then was to be a cowboy! Now, David spends his time creating characters such as Jars, Snook and Quenton – inspired by the many characters he has met in his travels, particularly in the Australian Outback.

  Originally from Loanhead, Scotland, David now resides in Deloraine, Tasmania, with his wife Wendy and faithful German shepherd, Shadow. Forest Spirit is David’s first novel.

  He was an old buffalo, big and grey, with long black horns stretching along his back. He stood, partly hidden in the thick spear grass, and scattered here and there tall eucalypts, silent and sentinel, dotted the landscape.

  The bush grew quiet.

  Even the cockatoos, who, just moments ago, were flocking and screeching in the sky, had returned to their branches to be still and silent. Now, their black eyes focused on the scene below.

  The buffalo, swaying from side to side, pawed the ground. He shook his head, then choked and rasped as squelching rumbles poured from his throat.

  A stick had pierced his hind leg, burrowing deep into his calf-muscle. He writhed and twisted, trying to escape the pain; he rubbed his leg against the tree trunk. The stick snapped with a soft thunk. The buried end remained.

  Now, if he turned his head as far as his horns would allow, he could see the source of his injury, see the yellow pus that seeped from it, and the tiny black flies that swarmed, then landed to drink their fill.

  His body trembled. It was the poison. It had taken three days to do its work, invading his bloodstream, spreading through his body, causing him to sweat and shiver.

  He knew that soon he would have to seek a place to rest, a place of shade and soft breeze where he could lie down and wait – for whatever fate had decided.

  Suddenly, his muscles tightened and his head jerked up. A wisp of wind had sprung from the east, bringing some coolness to his burning body; it also carried a familiar scent – a foul smell that, in the past, had always caused him to turn and trot away in disgust. Today, for the first time, he stood fast, eyes searching the path that would soon bring the vile creature into his territory with its sickening stink.

  The thing that he despised came into view, roaring and spewing its black breath, and at that very moment a spasm of pain, needle sharp, raced through his leg and up into his body. He shuddered, then pawed the ground once more. White foam formed at his mouth and his breathing grew quicker.

  He waited.

  The intruder drew near. When it was opposite, he didn’t hesitate. Today, he would not flee. It was time to show his anger. Bellowing his rage, he lowered his head and charged. Bushes and saplings flattened as he bolted towards the monster, his black eyes fixed and unblinking. White streams of spittle flew from his mouth. Today, his enemy would die.

  He slammed into the side of the beast. Sudden shock waves rang through the bush. The cockatoos stirred and flapped their wings.

  Shaking his head, he stood and watched as his enemy toppled over onto its side, watched as it hesitated before rolling, almost in slow motion, off the dirt track and down into a deep wash-a-way, where it lay, unmoving, on its back.

  A cloud of red dust swirled above the crumpled heap, the only sound a whup-whup-whupping that came from the round things attached to its belly.

  ‘Whup – Whup – Whup – Whup’.

  The rhythmic beats slowed, then died.

  Content now, the buffalo shook his head once again, then turned and made his way into the scrub.

  He felt the wind strengthen as he struggled to reach the place where he too would die, heard it rustle through the treetops, heard it whimper among the tall grass like a lost animal. Heard the cockatoos as they flew squawking into the sky.

  Everyone who knew Jacinta Kelly called her Jars. Now, on the edge of Jacana Billabong, standing on the sun-baked mud that circled its shores, she gazed across its grey waters. In the shallows, several swamp birds waded and fed among the floating lily pads. There were egrets, herons, magpie geese, ducks and jacanas. She had often laughed at the jacanas as they strode about in their superior way, twisting their snake-like necks to impossible angles. But not today. Today, she couldn’t laugh.

  A dead earth stink rose from the hard black mud at her feet. She crinkled her nose and sighed, wishing she hadn’t come back to this place; it held too many memories, thoughts best forgotten that bunched and twisted in her head like writhing snakes.

  Her stomach clenched and churned, and bile rose in her throat. She gagged. Bending over, hands on knees, she spat out a glob of yellow-green gunk. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she stood, seeing for the thousandth time the place where she and her brother had visited nearly every day – the baked mudflats where occasional eucalypts and tea-trees grew, the thick bushland beyond, and the billabong where barramundi swam with crocodiles, and where rifle fish spent their days hovering in the shade of the spreading fronds of the pandanus bushes.

  It had been three months since the day of the accident. Her body had mended – the broken leg and ribs, the smashed skull – but the scars in her mind remained, sensitive when nudged. And so, with the familiarity of the billabong – the birds, the animal sounds, the heady mixture of bush scents – the unwanted memories had come back, surging and boiling inside her.

  She bent over once again, choking and spewing onto the ground.

  She wiped her lips free of spit once again. ‘It sucks,’ she said aloud. ‘It bloody well sucks! Why couldn’t I have died with them? It’s not fair. Everything’s too hard now, too different.’

  Without thinking, she picked up a rock and threw it, low and hard, into the water. The sudden splash caused the birds to scatter, half-running, half-flying, squawking across its surface. Jacana BiIlabong shivered as the ripples from the rock spiralled outward towards the shore.

  ‘Watcha doin’ Jars?’ She spun around, startled. It was Tom, the station hand; the cries of the birds had drowned out the sound of his arrival. He was on horseback, dressed in his work clothes – felt slouch hat, faded green denim shirt, jeans and riding boots.

  Taking a deep breath, more to recover from her surprise than from her need for oxygen, she met Tom’s eyes. ‘Nothing much, I just thought I’d come back again – to this place.’

  ‘How come yer chuckin’ rocks at them birds? Always thought you liked ’em.’

  He spoke in a matter-of-fact sort of way, a toneless drawl, not accu
sing but demanding. He wanted an answer. He took off his hat and wiped some sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Well? Why was ya?’

  Jars shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I wasn’t aiming at them. I just threw the rock ’cause I was – you know – pissed off.’

  Tom adjusted his hat. ‘Okay, good enough. Letting off a bit of steam every now and then is okay, I guess.’ He half turned and patted the horse’s rump. ‘Anyhow, jump up. You’re wanted back at the homestead.’

  Jars, who was also wearing jeans and a felt hat, walked towards Tom and the horse. Once there, she gripped the saddle with both hands and hoisted herself up. She adjusted her hat then held Tom’s waist for balance. ‘How come you’re riding Nellie, Tom? The station ute broken down or something?’

  Tom clicked the mare into a walk and, without turning, pointed towards the horizon. ‘Didn’t you notice? Black clouds. Storm’s comin’. Closin’ in fast too. Wouldn’t want to get bogged when that lot drops its bundle. Not when you have to get to the station. Urgent, Mr H. said.’

  ‘How do you mean, urgent?’

  ‘Don’t know. Some woman wants to see ya.’

  ‘Yeah? Who is she?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. All I know is I gotta fetch you back.’

  ‘Can’t you give me a clue? I mean, what’s she look like for a start?’

  ‘Hey, steady up. All I can say is she drove a flash lookin’ four-wheel-drive. She looked official though, now I come to think of it. Dressed fancy-like.’

  ‘I wonder what she wants?’

  Tom didn’t answer. His eyes were on the dark clouds that were now approaching fast. He prodded the mare into a slow, steady canter. Jars leant forward and whispered into his ear, ‘Whatever she wants, it won’t be good. I know that much.’

  Half turning in the saddle, Tom met Jars’ eyes. ‘Hey, that’s enough of that kinda talk. I for one don’t wanna hear it, so shut up and hang on.’ He kicked his heels, urging the horse on. They rode in silence, each alone with their thoughts.

  Who could she be? Jars wondered. I’ve never had visitors before. Not way out here. We’re more than a hundred kilometres from the nearest town.

  She shuddered, not liking the new queasiness that had crept into her belly.

  Nellie let out a whinny, then snorted and sniffed the air. Tom leant forward and patted the side of her neck. ‘Steady old girl. We’ll get you home safe and dry. You too Jars.’ He turned to face her once again. ‘And settle down, will you. I can feel yer shakin’ and shiverin’ from ’ere.’

  As if in answer, sheet lightning lit up the sky, followed by a low rumble of thunder.

  Jars glanced upward. The clouds were almost overhead now, a mass of billowing blackness, quickly swallowing any pockets of blue left in the sky.

  Then suddenly, as if on command, the familiar sounds of the bush faded – the cries of invisible birds, the occasional panicked rustle of lizards, even the breeze that had been twitching the grass and swaying the bushes had now grown still, its silence ominous, quiet as a whisper. Only the ants on the ground were busy, building dimpled shelters in the red earth.

  Jars continued to wonder. What was brewing for her back at the homestead?

  The screen door creaked as Jars pushed it open. She stepped into the living area of the homestead. It was a large room, with just a scattering of furniture – cane chairs, a long wooden table that served as a workdesk for Mr Henderson, and shelves, where books and magazines were both stacked and scattered at random. Immediately above, a ceiling fan, powered by the station generator, pulsed with a steady rhythm.

  There were three people in the room. Mr and Mrs Henderson and the woman who wanted to see her. In hushed tones, the woman was talking to the Hendersons. They hadn’t seen Jars, who remained standing near the doorway.

  She took a deep breath and rubbed her hands on her jeans; a film of moisture had suddenly sprung to their surface.

  She took a step forward just as the storm front hit. It struck with a fierce, howling gush, and with it came the lightning, jagged flashes that lit up the room. Thunder cracked and the liquid rhythm of the rain followed. Wiping her hands on her jeans once again, she walked with nervous steps towards the Hendersons and the woman who had come to see her.

  ‘Ah, Jars,’ Mrs Henderson said, rising from her chair, ‘come and sit down. This lady is Ms Barnard, from the welfare department.’

  Jars gave a slight nod, then walked towards a vacant chair; a trail of red dust fell on the polished wooden floorboards. Stealing a sideways glance at the stranger, a large, round woman dressed in a khaki uniform, Jars sat on the chair. She clasped her hands tightly on her shaking knees and waited.

  A sheaf of papers sat on Ms Barnard’s lap. Holding these in one hand and gripping the arm of the chair with the other, she raised her body as if about to stand. Then, as though the effort was too much, she sank back into the chair again. ‘Hello, Jacinta, my dear. How very nice to meet you.’ She placed the papers back on her lap and reached for a cup and saucer from a side-table. She sipped, her little finger extended.

  ‘First of all,’ Ms Barnard continued, her attention focused on Jars, ‘let me explain. I represent the Department of Children’s Services. That is why I am here today.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, ‘And let me also say how sorry we are at the loss of your family in such a bizarre manner. Most regretful. My sincere sympathies, my dear. However, life must go on as the saying goes, and that, Jacinta, is why I wish to talk with you … about your future.’

  Jars shifted forward in her chair. She did not like the official tone that droned from this stranger’s lips, and there was something else – a sixth sense, unexplainable but somehow very real, like a jolt of electricity that now scraped her insides. At that moment, she knew. Her earlier feelings of disquiet had been true. Something was very wrong.

  She glanced towards Mr and Mrs Henderson. Mr Henderson, still in his station work clothes, was fidgeting with his hat, swapping it from one hand to the other. He doesn’t want to be here either, Jars thought. And neither does Mrs H.

  She was sitting ruler straight, arms folded, frowning.

  Ms Barnard leant forward. ‘Now, Jacinta my dear, the problem – and I must say again how sorry we are about these circumstances – is that you are now without any immediate family, not in mainland Australia anyway. The only relative we have been able to trace is your father’s brother, who lives in a small town on the west coast of Tasmania: Cray Bay, it’s called. He has a family, including a son who is your age, thirteen, and they have agreed to look after you, see to your schooling and so on. So,’ she concluded, ‘let us be very grateful for that mercy.’

  Jars, her natural shyness leaving her, sat upright, her brown eyes screaming. ‘What?’ she said. ‘You mean leave Jacana Station, to live with strangers?’ She looked directly into Ms Barnard’s eyes. ‘No way. This is where I live. Not where you say I gotta go.’ She turned to Mr and Mrs Henderson. ‘That’s right Mrs H? Mr H? … Isn’t it?’

  Ms Barnard was the first to reply. ‘Now, now, my dear. Let us not be hasty. These people in, er, Cray Bay, are not strangers. They are your family. You will be much better off with them. Believe me, I know. For instance, there will be others of your age to mix with, which is impossible here, where there are no other children whatsoever.’ She waved her hand in the air as if to emphasise the point. ‘I mean it’s so remote here, hours from the nearest town. No, we must face facts. This has been discussed at the highest level within my organisation. You are, at present, decidedly disadvantaged, as I have outlined to you.’ She shrugged her shoulders and opened the palms of her hands. ‘Now, I am sure you will agree that by relocating, you will have the chance of a new and exciting life, an opportunity to learn new things, see how other people live. Believe me, I know about these things. In fact I’ve seen dozens of cases similar to yours. So –’

  Jars rose from the chair, not letting her finish. Hands on hips, she faced Ms Barnard. ‘That’s
crap. I like it here.’ She choked a little and her eyes moistened. ‘I’ve always lived on the station. And I’ve always done okay with the Correspondence School lessons.’ She looked towards the Hendersons, her eyes pleading. Both shook their heads in silence, as though utterly confused.

  Jars stuck out her chin. ‘And I’m not just one of your so called “cases” either.’

  Mr Henderson pushed himself from his chair and hurried towards his wife, who had also risen. He put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Look,’ he said in a loud voice, any previous confusion now gone. ‘Jars is right.’ He waved his hat in Ms Barnard’s direction. ‘This is where Jars belongs. Marge and me are looking after her. Like we explained to you earlier, she lives with us now. She has her own room and the general run of the place. This is her home, not some far off place in Tasmania. Right Marge?’

  Marge Henderson shook her head. ‘No, Gil, we have to think of the girl. I mean, what’s to become of her here? Ms Barnard is right in what she says. She’ll be far better off with her own kin.’

  ‘I know, Marge, but you know me. I might be a bit of a sop at the best of times, but the lass seems to belong here … with us.’

  His wife shook her head once again and looked at her husband. Her silent stare said everything. Gil Henderson nodded. He understood. So did Jars. Her fate had been decided and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Ms Barnard replaced her cup and saucer on the side-table and with some effort prised herself from the chair. ‘I beg your pardon? I’m afraid you’ve lost me.’

  ‘You’ll have to forgive my husband, Ms Barnard, I’m afraid he is a big softy, but the truth is, we both know what’s right for Jars, however hard that is.’ She waved her hand in a sweeping gesture as though describing Jacana Station. ‘This has always been her home, but now I think it’s time for a change.’ She looked at her husband. ‘Right Gil?’

  He nodded once again, knowing that his wife was right.