A magpie carolled overhead. An old man kangaroo bounded across their path. The soft patter of gumnuts on the ground revealed a feeding flock of red-headed gang-gang cockatoos in the treetops, and a daytime dingo howled. The fragrance of peppermint gums was sweet and strong. Charlie smiled to think of what Professor Sung would say if he saw her now. Restrict physical activity, he’d said. Avoid animals for fear of infection, he’d said. What would be the point of living? There was more to a person than blood cells and bones.
Charlie gulped great lungfuls of scented air and cantered to the top of a ridge clothed with alpine heath and everlastings. Where was that patch of snow gums? They couldn’t be far now. There they were, trunks resplendent in splashes of salmon, apricot and peach. How long was it since she’d been to Corroboree Bog? She cast her mind back, past the transplant, past her failed treatments, past the dreadful, desperate days spent hiding her illness from her mother. It had been early spring, just after snow melt. She’d packed a lunch and spent the day taking field notes. It had been an unusually successful breeding season for the frogs in the bog, with lots of fertile egg clutches. With any luck, she’d find an abundance of healthy young froglings emerging from the ponds.
Ever since she was old enough to ride into the mountains, Charlie had considered herself the keeper of the Balleroo bogs. There was something so hauntingly beautiful and fragile about these primitive wetlands, remnants of the last ice age. Most people couldn’t see it. Most people were blind. When the mobile library came to Currajong, Charlie lost herself in private study, in books, in the internet’s infinite cloud of knowledge. She became an expert about local land-forms, especially the subalpine bogs. ‘You should study science at university,’ the librarian had urged her. ‘You’re a natural. Not many students engage in all this extra research.’ Charlie just smiled. She never studied at school. How could she? She was hardly ever there. It would have been different if they’d taught interesting subjects – like ecology, for instance.
She’d learned at the library that Balleroo’s bogs were formed during the Palaeozoic Age, five hundred million years ago. Cradled beneath granite and sandstone peaks, sculpted by glaciers, eroded by rain and snow – each bog had adapted to the particular combination of its own topography and microclimate. Charlie knew each one by names she’d given them long ago. There was Tree Frog Tarn, Barking Marsh and Bullfrog Bog. She’d found a colony of rare water skinks at Pobblebonk Pond, and even rarer growling grass frogs at Parrot Pools. Her favourite amphibians were the pretty spotted tree frogs, miniature cousins of the green tree frogs that were popular as pets. Corroboree Bog was a haven for these unique little animals, and she couldn’t wait to see how successful the summer hatchings had been.
Charlie dismounted, aching and stiff from the ride. She tethered Tambo to a tree, gave him a nosebag and walked down through the snow gums. Turning left through paddocks of purple eyebrights and starbursts of hoary sunrays, she reached a fence dating back to the mountain leases. The hardwood strainer posts were rotten with age, the barbed wire rusted and broken.
Charlie had started down the hill along the old stock route when something made her pause. A prickle along the nape of her neck, like she was being watched. Slowly, very slowly, she turned around. Only twenty metres away, across the grassy clearing, stood a great red and white bull. Charlie gulped the air to calm herself. A skinny black cow with a late newborn calf marched to stand beside him. The cow mooed uneasily. Shit. Charlie recognised her by her bright-pink ear tag. That was a Kelly cow. What the hell were Kelly cattle doing way out here in the park? Or any cattle, for that matter?
The big bull pawed the ground and tossed his head. Charlie retreated a few steps. There was something unusual about him; something she couldn’t immediately put her finger on. And then it struck her. He had horns. Bill ran poll Herefords, which were hornless. This wasn’t one of Bill’s bulls. This animal’s horns curved forward, long and upswept with pointed tips.
The bull snorted, flared his nostrils and trotted a circle around the cow. His hide bore battle scars in place of tags or brands. Charlie’s heart lurched when she recognised just what she faced. A wild scrubber bull. He lowered his head to the ground, bellowed, and charged at a candle-bark tree. His cow lowed in admiration at the display of strength. Bulging muscles strained against the resistance of the trunk as he scraped his horns from side to side, shredding bark to sawdust. It looked for all the world like he was sharpening his horns.
Charlie glanced around for her own tree, but she’d left the sheltering forest behind. The old, grassy stock route led down a wide slope to the wetlands, two hundred metres below. She was caught out in the open, with no shelter apart from the tumbledown fence. Charlie walked backwards down the hill, unwilling to turn around. She sensed that only eye contact was keeping the animal at bay, and it would run her down if she turned tail and made a break.
The bull bellowed a challenge, made a run at her, then stopped to uproot a young wattle. The tree lay over his horns like an Olympic victory garland while he tore at the ground with first one fore-foot and then the other, sending clods of clay and clouds of dust sailing over his back and past his flanks. A rumbling battle cry rose in his throat, ending in a deafening roar. This was a bull with something to prove. Charlie maintained her slow and steady retreat, keeping the old fence between her and the bull wherever she could.
Until the bull charged. He moved with a cumbersome, rolling gait, but Charlie wasn’t fooled. She knew full well the deceptive pace of such a lumbering stride. She turned and sprinted down the hill, hampered by shaky legs and weak muscles, heart hammering in her chest. She tried to judge the proximity of the animal from the sound of his thundering hoofs and rumbling breath. Her own lungs burned now, and it was harder and harder to keep her balance among the tussocks of snowgrass. Any moment now he’d push her in the back and trample her to earth. What would it feel like? she wondered. She’d almost lost her life at that hospital in Melbourne. Far better to die on this wild mountain.
A shot rang out, then another, and another. A bawl of pain, and the earth shuddered. Charlie fell down in fright, squeezed her eyes shut and waited. All she could hear was the rush of blood through her body, the thump of her beating heart. Seconds felt like minutes.
Then a quiet voice. ‘You’re safe. Take my hand.’
Charlie dared to believe she’d survived. She rolled over, and there was a man, tall and blond. He wore the khaki uniform of a park ranger and carried a bolt-action rifle. With a start, she turned to see the bull, lying quite dead where he’d speared into the ground, surrounded by blood and churned earth. The man took her by the wrist, pulled her gently to her feet and dusted her off.
‘It’s becoming a habit, saving your life,’ he said. ‘But at least you’ve got your clothes on this time.’ As far as Charlie could tell, she’d never met this man before. A combination of confusion and shock caused her to wobble violently and collapse back to earth. The man seemed to consider this for a moment, then joined her on the ground. He sat with arms wrapped around his knees, hands clasped. ‘Excuse me for being personal,’ he said, ‘but that’s one hell of a haircut.’ He had a faint accent; German, maybe.
Charlie perked up and managed a smile. She wasn’t going to die after all. This deluded stranger had seen to that. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘If it hadn’t been for you …’ She shook her head. That awful possibility didn’t bear thinking about. Charlie took a closer look at her saviour. She still couldn’t place him. ‘Who are you?’
‘Am I really that forgettable?’
‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re not. That’s why it’s so strange that I can’t remember.’
He smiled. ‘All right, I’ll introduce myself again, if I must. Karl Richter.’ He extended his arm. She propped herself up shakily on one elbow and shook his hand.
‘And who exactly do you think I am?’ she asked.
‘You’re Samantha Carmichael. From Melbourne. Just visiting … Although it’s been a very lon
g visit.’
‘Ohhh, I get it,’ she said, laughing. ‘You’ve got me mixed up with my sister. She’s Samantha.’ Charlie nodded, pleased she’d resolved things in her own mind, if not in his. ‘I’m Charlie. How exactly did you meet Sam?’ She wanted to add, and why didn’t she have her clothes on? No, she’d better direct that intriguing question to her sister. Not that she’d blame Sam. Charlie took a closer look at her mysterious saviour. He was pretty cute – slim, with long, muscled legs and intelligent grey eyes. Mary insisted grey eyes were associated with water and wisdom. Their bearers might appear mild-mannered, she said, but in fact possessed a hidden strength – the inexorable power of water, able in time to wear away the hardest rock. Maybe Mum was right. Whatever the case, the man’s quiet confidence was very alluring.
‘Look,’ said Karl. ‘I’d love for us to have a good, long chat about how we met, and who we know, and who you might actually be. But it’s not really the time.’ He stood up, reached for her, and for a second time she took his hand. She’d always been a sucker for a man in uniform. This time, she managed to remain on her feet. ‘You okay to walk?’ She nodded. ‘Let’s go then,’ he said. ‘Samantha, or Charlie, or whoever you are.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘To look at a bog.’
‘You’re kidding me,’ she said.
‘I know sphagnum bogs don’t get good press,’ he said. ‘But they’re really quite fascinating. Vital habitats filtering water into mountain catchments. Whole communities of flora and fauna depend on them – the whole ecosystem depends on them.’
‘But …’ began Charlie.
He held up his hand. ‘Considering that I keep saving your life, could you humour me, please?’
Charlie began to hop with excitement, trying to get a word in. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I love bogs, particularly that bog.’ She pointed down the hill. ‘They’re one of my very favourite things. Along with their frogs and lizards and snakes and things.’
Karl looked at her sideways. ‘You’ve either hit your head, or you’re teasing me,’ he said. ‘Last time we met, you didn’t seem so keen on reptiles.’
‘I told you,’ said Charlie. ‘That must have been my sister, Sam. Did she have a posh voice?’
‘I suppose she did a bit,’ he conceded.
‘Then she didn’t sound like me exactly, did she?’ This was hard work, convincing him that she wasn’t her sister. Had it been this difficult for Sam? Had people mistaken her as well?
‘Maybe not. You just look so much alike.’
Charlie groaned. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
He nodded, apparently happy at that, and they walked down the hill to Corroboree Bog. Or at least to what had once been Corroboree Bog. Charlie sensed trouble even before she reached the wetlands. The slope had been eroded by the hoofs of cattle, exposing the fragile peaty soil to the elements. The expected summer carpet of marsh marigolds and orange everlastings was nowhere to be seen. Clumps of silver alpine daisies were grazed down to the ground. She glanced across at Karl. He wore a grim expression on his face.
When they reached the bog, what had once been a chain of pristine pools was little more than a wallow. The greenhood orchids were gone. The moss beds were trampled. In some places, pugholes had run together, creating little channels, draining dry whole parts of the marsh. Karl began to take dozens of photographs.
‘Look,’ said Charlie. She bent down to where a small green frog was struggling to escape from a fresh cow pat. It had a broken leg. ‘What are cattle doing back in the park?’ she asked as she went to rescue it.
‘Wait,’ said Karl. He took photos from every angle of the frogling trapped in the dung, then nodded for her to go ahead. ‘There’s a trial on,’ he said. ‘To test whether cattle reduce the risk of bushfires. Although so far published and peer-reviewed research shows no statistically significant difference between grazed and ungrazed areas.’ He spoke like she imagined a professor might speak, and his voice was strangely compelling. Karl pointed to the tiny injured frog that Charlie was releasing into one of the few undamaged ponds. ‘Litoria spenceri. The spotted tree frog,’ he said. ‘Critically endangered.’
Charlie was stunned. She’d never met anyone who even knew the common name of a frog before, let alone somebody who could identify it by its Latin name in the field and knew its conservation status.
‘My mission is to protect the habitat of your little frog friend …’ Karl continued. He was on a mission? Like James Bond? Fantastic. She didn’t know people actually had missions in real life.
‘With the help of your keen eyes and these photos,’ he said, patting the camera, ‘I hope to get the grazing trial suspended.’
You had to love this bloke. ‘I fucking well hope so,’ she said.
‘It’s not just cattle, although they’re the obvious culprits here,’ said Karl. ‘Balleroo is infested with feral pigs, deer … horses. We need to get rid of the lot.’ Charlie went quiet. All of a sudden she wasn’t quite so gung-ho for Karl’s mission. He went on taking measurements, pictures, water samples. He wandered off to the far side of the wetlands, talking into a dictaphone. Charlie squatted down beside a trampled bed of cushion plants, took an exercise book from her backpack and started making her own notes and drawings. After a while Karl returned, a puzzled look on his face. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Writing a report,’ she said.
‘Who for?’ he asked.
‘Just for me,’ she answered. Charlie looked up as he squatted beside her, his face close to hers, his expression more puzzled than ever. Karl wasn’t the sort of man she normally went for, but she did love the accent, and he was handsome, in a clean-cut sort of way. Of course, saving lives and knowing about frogs made him sexy, even without all the other stuff.
‘How did you get here in the first place?’ he asked. ‘I could see no car. Did you know that fire trail is closed to the public?’
‘I rode here,’ she said, and pointed up the hill. ‘My horse is tethered up there, above the wetlands.’ He looked surprised – displeased, even. ‘Don’t worry. He’s more than thirty metres away from any watercourse, and I don’t need a permit to ride in this area, do I?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t.’ He gazed at her with a clear-eyed intensity that she supposed he usually reserved for endangered species. ‘Just who exactly are you?’
‘I told you. Charlie.’
‘Charlie Carmichael?’ he asked.
Charlie Carmichael. She might have been, if things had been just a bit different.
‘I’m Charlie Kelly,’ she said. ‘Charlie Kelly from Brumby’s Run.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Sam gave up, slipped from the yard, and returned to the house through the afternoon shadows. She and Whirlwind were at an impasse. Maybe it was time to ask Bushy for help.
Now Charlie was back, the time was fast approaching when she’d have to come clean with Bushy; come clean with the whole town, for that matter. It was a terrifying prospect, one she hoped could be put off for a few more days. Charlie had said she didn’t want to go into Currajong yet, didn’t want the curious eyes of the townsfolk upon her. That gave Sam a little breathing space. Some time to figure out just how to go about her impossible confession.
Bushy, she’d decided, would be the easiest person to tell. Perhaps she’d start off with him. She trusted Bushy. The morning after they’d taken the mare (she didn’t use the word stolen, even to herself), Bushy had given his statement to the police, with Sam hovering nervously in the background. ‘Kids,’ he’d said, with a snort of derision. ‘A bunch of them opened the gate. Saw them myself, I did.’ He’d glanced at Sam and winked. ‘Probably dared each other to get in the yard with that damned man-killer, and then turned tail and ran.’ He spat a wad of tobacco at the ground. ‘Bloody kids.’
‘Bloody kids,’ the sergeant had repeated, shaking his head in disgust. ‘Wayne said the horse was branded?’
‘That’s right,’ said Bushy. ‘UV on the near shoulder, and a 9 on the off.’
‘Well,’ said the sergeant, with a long look around, like he hoped that Whirlwind might just trot past or something. ‘I suppose the bugger will be long gone be now.’
Bushy nodded along, sagely. ‘Long, long gone.’ The sergeant said goodbye, and Sam had let out a sigh of relief, loud enough to make him look at her. For a moment she was a rabbit in the spotlight. Then he gave a wave and left.
‘You may have bitten off more than you can chew with that mare,’ said Bushy after the sergeant was gone. ‘And if I were you, I’d alter those brands.’
Sam felt herself flush fire-engine red. ‘How do you mean?’ she asked.
Bushy popped a new plug of tobacco into his mouth. ‘It doesn’t take much to change a 9 into an 8. Or to change a U into an O, or a V into a diamond.’ Sam opened her mouth to deny it, but what was the point? ‘Let me know if you need me,’ Bushy had said.
She needed him now. Whirlwind was eating well, and at least the mare wasn’t actively trying to kill people any more. But that was the extent of her improvement. She was still fearful and hyper vigilant, and wouldn’t let Sam anywhere near her. None of the standard tactics had worked. Sam free-lunged Whirlwind round her yard each evening, waiting for that precise moment when the mare would drop her head, relax her jaw – grow calm enough for an approach. That moment never came. It seemed that Whirlwind would rather drop from exhaustion than allow a human to lay a hand on her.
Condor trotted along at Sam’s feet, down to the house. The big bird was missing Charlie, who still wasn’t back from Balleroo. Sam had tried her phone. Turned off, for Christ’s sake. What was Charlie thinking, going off on her own like that? Sam was sick of feeling responsible for her sister. Sick of cooking her nourishing meals, monitoring her medication, worrying about her. Why couldn’t Charlie have just listened to the doctors, and to Mary? Why couldn’t she have stayed in Melbourne? Sam shook her head. There was no point thinking like that. Charlie was home, so she’d just have to make the best of it.
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