My scalp prickled. I had to distract Mrs Campbell. Sing, clap, dance? Anything. But nothing too strange, otherwise she’d suspect I was up to something. Cough! Everyone would believe a cough, especially after the freezing rain yesterday.
I began hacking and spluttering, doubling over and making as much noise as possible. ‘Oh,’ cough, ‘sorry, I think I,’ cough, ‘must have,’ cough, ‘um, I think I’d better,’ I pointed vaguely around the side of the cottage. ‘I’ll tell,’ cough, ‘Aunt Evie you were here.’
Mrs Campbell pushed her glasses up her nose and licked her lemony lips. ‘Just tell her we’d appreciate a hoy if either of you spot any woolly stragglers over the next few days. We don’t want to miss any escapees while we’re shearing.’
I nodded.
‘And another thing,’ continued Mrs Campbell.
I held my breath, not daring to look at Harry.
‘Seen any wombats down this way?’
I felt as if I’d been slapped. My cheeks felt hot, my eyes stung. I tried to keep my breathing steady, hoping my pounding heart wouldn’t give me away.
‘Wombats?’ asked Aunt Evie, suddenly beside me. ‘No, no wombats around here.’
Mrs Campbell fixed Aunt Evie with a steely glare. ‘Just as well. It’s taken me years to get rid of them.’ She glanced sideways at Harry. ‘Can’t have wombats getting the better of us, can we, boys? Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’d best get on.’
As they turned to leave, Harry raised his eyebrows and gave me an imperceptible shake of his head. I had to speak to him. On his own.
‘Oh, and before we go,’ said Mrs Campbell, resting her gaze on me. ‘About shearing. Can we count you in to help on Sunday? We start just after seven.’
I slipped my hands in my pockets to stop them shaking. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
‘Thanks for asking,’ said Aunt Evie, putting an arm around my shoulder. ‘How about we see how Mouse feels on the day?’
Mrs Campbell shook her head. ‘Mind you don’t go mollycoddling your niece,’ she warned. ‘Seems awfully nervy, if you ask me. No time for softies out in the country, you know.’
Aunt Evie smiled stiffly. ‘Thanks, Mrs Campbell, but I imagine Mouse has already discovered that.’
I sank into one of the kitchen chairs when they’d gone. My knees wouldn’t stop trembling. Pumpkin sat by my foot, and Miss Pearl nudged my shins while the smell of ginger cake wafted like a warm hug through the room.
‘What can we do?’ I asked as I watched Aunt Evie retrieve the cake from the oven.
Aunt Evie shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Mouse. It seems crazy in this day and age to think you can get a free permit to kill a wombat when they’re supposed to be protected. Oh, dear! Looks like it’s nearly burnt.’
The cake was a bit black, but even so, I couldn’t eat a single crumb. The thought of Mrs Campbell finding Fatticake had completely ruined my appetite. Instead, I took my wombat-ology scrapbook to my bedroom and flicked through the research I’d already done. I’d sketched a picture of each species of wombat, labelling their five sets of whiskers, their tough five-toed feet and strong thick claws. I’d drawn samples of what they liked to eat, including wallaby grass, kangaroo grass and another wombat favourite – the tussocky snow grass, which I’d found on the farm near the dried-up creek.
But it wasn’t enough. I stared at the next blank page. With the project due the following week, I had to make it amazing. Amazing enough to change the mind of anyone who didn’t like wombats.
The sound of tapping claws stole my attention. ‘Hey,’ I murmured as Miss Pearl sniffed her way towards me. ‘Want a cuddle?’ With an enormous yank, I heaved her into my bed and snuggled in beside her. She jumped and twisted for a while, but as I scratched her tummy, her eyelids drooped and she began to fall asleep.
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked her snoring body. ‘How are we going to stop people hurting you and all of your friends? Got any good ideas?’
Miss Pearl clawed at her ear with her back foot, then promptly fell back to sleep.
‘Fat lot of help you are,’ I said, tickling under her chin. ‘I need to make a plan.’
I nestled down next to her and began doodling on a page of my scrapbook. What if we formed some sort of club – Harry, Aunt Evie and me? There were clubs in Brisbane for saving the koala. Could we form a club like that? There was one near our local park back at home that held sausage sizzles and tree giveaways. What could a club here do? Maybe explain to farmers the changes they could make? That killing wombats wasn’t the answer and learning to live with them was?
What would we call our club? Save the Wombat? The Wombat Action Group?
I drew two Ws side by side.
That’s who we’d be.
And we’d make sure not a single wombat was hurt, ever again.
‘Harry’s out back,’ bellowed Mrs Campbell when I knocked at the farmhouse door on Sunday morning. She wore old navy overalls over a knitted green jumper and held a pair of dirty gumboots in one hand.
Her face seemed extra scowly, her lips extra pinched and sour. I thrust her the rent envelope and ducked across to the shearing shed before she could ask any questions about sauce or ginger or wombats.
I was dying to find Harry. Wait till I told him about the Wombat Warriors and my plan to save Fatticake. To save all wombats.
But Harry wasn’t in the shed. Or in the chook pen. Or feeding the calves. I looked everywhere before I ran back down the drive, out through the trees near the cottage and found Harry tossing stones at a fence post near Fatticake’s burrow.
‘Listen to this,’ I said excitedly. ‘I’ve had this really, really brilliant idea.’
A magpie chortled from a tree and a sheep bleated in the distance. But Harry ignored me, flinging another stone angrily against the wooden post.
Plink, echoed the stone.
‘Harry?’
‘Three fences got bashed through last night,’ he muttered, swiping his hair from his forehead. ‘All the ewes got out. Mum’s gone ballistic.’
My heart sank. The Wombat Warriors were too late.
‘Was it Fatticake?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know. It could have been a wild dog or a kangaroo. But whatever it was, it barged through the wire and sent the sheep flying. Now we’re running late with shearing and Mum’s as mad as a cut snake.’
Suddenly I felt like flinging stones.
Harry pulled a face. ‘I came down here to check on Fatticake, but I can’t find him, and now I have to go back to help. Are you coming?’
A buzzing came from inside the shed as we approached it. It sounded like Dad’s electric shaver, but louder. A small group of woolly sheep stood in a pen near an elevated wooden platform, while Craig and the dogs pushed them into a huddle. I watched, spellbound, as Curtis pulled a sheep up to the platform and, in one swift move, sat it on its bottom between his legs and began to shear its belly and legs. Great chunks of fleece fell away. The outer coat was yellowy brown, but the wool closest to its body was white and clean. Curtis moved the clippers steadily around its head and neck and then down to the sheep’s back.
When he reached the face, it was like watching Dad shave in the mornings. Up and around and under, until the shears eventually clicked off, and a great pile of fleece lay on the floor. The newly shorn sheep stood still for a moment, as if embarrassed by its pink nakedness, before baaing and leaping down a ramp with a kick and a jump, free of its woolly burden.
Mrs Campbell waited at the bottom of the ramp with a flat plastic container strapped to her back. A clear tube ran from the container to the gun-like syringe in her hand. As the sheep passed, she grabbed its head and squirted a dose of liquid into its mouth. Meanwhile, Craig snatched up the fleece in his arms and spread it out on a table. He carefully picked through it, stuffing the largest piece into one bin and the loose bits int
o a canvas bag. Not a single bit was wasted.
For a moment I forgot about Fatticake and the ruined fences. The shearing process was amazing. The whole sheep had taken less than two minutes to shear.
‘Harry!’ hollered Mrs Campbell. ‘Mouse! What did I tell you? All hands on deck.’
Harry flinched. ‘We’re supposed to clean up after each sheep.’
‘Well, come on, then,’ I said, grinning with excitement.
Harry put me in charge of sweeping, while he flung the loose bits of wool into the canvas bag. Occasionally I’d stop to watch another naked pink sheep run down the ramp from the platform, but mostly I just enjoyed the buzz of the shears, the wagging tails of the dogs and the rich smell of wool from the newly shorn sheep.
It was nearly dark when the last few were shorn for the day. Curtis motioned to a gate behind him. ‘Take them out to the western paddock will you, Harry?’
The dogs climbed over the sheep’s newly shorn skin, barking and snapping at the air while Harry opened the gate. Once we’d shooed the sheep out of the pen, we ran down the laneway in front of them as the dogs brought up the rear.
All went well until, after a few hundred metres, a narrower lane cut the larger one in two.
‘Stand there,’ instructed Harry, pointing to the right-hand side of the smaller lane. ‘That’s where the fence is busted. Don’t let them through.’
I stood with my legs apart, bracing my shoulders and trying to calm my nerves. Harry ran down the left side of the lane. I supposed he expected the sheep to follow him, but instead they turned and galloped, bleating, straight towards me.
My pulse thudded in my ears. Oh no! What if they pushed past me and ran through the broken fence, escaping into the dry, rocky hillside beyond? Mrs Campbell would be furious.
‘Shoo,’ I said meekly.
But the sheep kept coming. And the dogs weren’t helping. They barked and snapped, pushing the huddle even faster towards me.
‘Wave your arms!’ shouted Harry above the racket. ‘Tell them to back off.’
I gulped. Why would a flock of sheep listen to me? Mouse by name, mouse by nature.
‘Back off,’ I tried, my voice hardly more than a squeak.
‘Louder!’ yelled Harry.
I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. This was it. I had to find my voice. I couldn’t be a mouse any longer. ‘Move!’ I bellowed.
Suddenly the lead sheep stopped. It swung its head and pricked its ears as the other sheep rammed up behind it. The dogs snapped. Sheep baaed. And round pellets of sheep poo flew everywhere.
‘MOVE!’ I yelled again. Without warning, the lead sheep ducked its head down and bolted off the other way.
I’d done it. I’d stood up to a whole flock of sheep! Wait till I told Aunt Evie. Wait till I told Mum and Dad!
After locking the sheep safely in the paddock, Harry showed me the hole in the fence. ‘See the wire?’ asked Harry. ‘Mum thinks it was a wombat, but heaps of wild animals could have done it.’
The wire was bent, pushed up from the ground, and the soil underneath was scuffed. Black poo cubes were scattered around the area. A small claw mark scratched the dirt.
I pulled a piece of grey fluff from the fence and rubbed it between my fingers. It was soft like Miss Pearl and Fatticake’s fur.
I knelt down to take a closer look. Something rust-red stained the broken wire.
‘Is that blood?’ I asked.
Harry squinted at the fence.
‘Maybe it was Fatticake looking for food,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe he hurt himself ducking through the fence.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Wombats can walk a long way,’ Harry shrugged, ‘but I don’t think Fatticake would wander this far.’
I peered at the distant line of trees near Fatticake’s burrow. The sun was disappearing beyond the horizon, painting the sky pink, orange and yellow, and I could just make out the road in front of the cottage in the murky light. ‘Hey! What’s that?’
Something was trundling through the paddock towards the road. Something stout – with short legs and a limping gait.
‘Fatticake,’ said Harry.
Mrs Campbell would be suspicious if Harry wasn’t there to help clean up after shearing, so Harry and I agreed to meet at Fatticake’s burrow on sunrise. We’d use oats to coax Fatticake to the cottage, where we’d check he was okay and keep him until we could figure out what to do.
If that was his blood, how badly was he hurt? He definitely seemed to be walking with a limp. Had he been caught on the fence when he’d barged through it the previous night? Or perhaps he’d been clipped by a car while crossing the road? Or had he been hurt by something or someone else?
Either way, we had to check he was okay and get him out of the burrow before Mrs Campbell came for him.
I prepared a bucket of oats and carrots and left out my runners and jacket before I went to bed that night, all ready for an early start.
The Wombat Warriors were in action.
Except, when I arrived at Fatticake’s burrow in the ghostly morning light, Harry wasn’t there.
I paced around the nearby shrubs and the itchy-butt tree, shivering as I thought of Harry’s skulls hidden in their hollow. Ten eerie skulls. All wombats like Fatticake.
Once.
‘Please don’t let there be eleven,’ I murmured. ‘Please let Fatticake be okay.’ I bent down at the entrance to Fatticake’s burrow. ‘Fatticake!’ I called. ‘It’s me!’ I rattled the bucket and sang his song, but no furry face poked out.
The bush stirred and rustled with birds and tiny insects as the sun poked over the horizon, but there was no Fatticake or Harry. I stamped my feet and huddled into my jacket, against the cold. The minutes ticked by, but Harry didn’t show.
I couldn’t wait any longer. Aunt Evie would have fed Miss Pearl and Willow by now, and my serve of porridge would be growing cold. If I didn’t hurry, I’d miss the bus to school.
I slunk back to the cottage, angry with Harry, but hoping we could lure Fatticake out after school.
I just hoped Mrs Campbell wouldn’t get there first.
‘Would you like me to call Mrs Campbell to find out if Harry’s okay?’ asked Aunt Evie that afternoon.
I’d only just made the bus that morning after racing inside to eat and grab my bag, but Harry hadn’t shown up at the bus stop, or at school. At first I’d been cranky. I would have liked to have slept in, too. But my selfish thoughts soon turned to worry. Where was he? If he’d slept in, wouldn’t Mrs Campbell have driven him in? Or perhaps she’d caught him trying to sneak out this morning? But that didn’t explain why he hadn’t come to school. My head spun with the possibilities. In the end I hoped that Harry was just sick.
I was about to say yes to calling Mrs Campbell, when Aunt Evie’s mobile buzzed.
‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, checking the caller ID. ‘Hello? Hi, Mrs Campbell. Yes. No. Mouse was just telling me she hasn’t seen him all day … Yes, that’s right. He wasn’t at school … I see, righto. Yes, I agree. Keep us posted. Thank you. Bye.’
‘Is Harry okay?’ I asked as soon as she’d hung up.
‘Mrs Campbell hasn’t seen him since early this morning,’ she said, looking worriedly at her phone. ‘Apparently they had a big fight and she thinks he might have run off.’
I gasped. ‘Run off?’
‘He’s done it before, apparently. She thought he might be down here with us, but since he isn’t, she’s thinking of calling the police.’ She reached for her coat from the back of the front door. ‘Perhaps we should go and look outside?’
Aunt Evie and I scoured the paddocks around the cottage and checked near Fatticake’s burrow. We looked around the hollow where he kept his skulls, and the burrows that had been filled in. As we scanned the saltbush and rocky outcrops, a queasy feeling snuck into my stomach. We couldn’
t see Harry anywhere.
We’d just about given up, and were crossing the road back to the cottage, when we heard a tractor approaching.
‘Hey,’ said Curtis, tipping his hat after he pulled up beside us. ‘Have you seen Harry?’
Aunt Evie and I shook our heads, and the tractor belched on its way. We continued walking, watching over our shoulders as the tractor turned into a paddock near the cottage.
Where could Harry be? Surely he hadn’t run away? He wouldn’t have abandoned Fatticake, not with Mrs Campbell on the warpath. Something didn’t seem quite right.
My head began to ache.
‘He’ll show up,’ said Aunt Evie. ‘Once he sees his brother out looking for him, then I’m sure he’ll—’
‘No!’ I gasped. A wave of panic suddenly seized me.
‘What?’
I’d suddenly registered what the tractor had been carrying.
‘STOP!’ I yelled, turning on my heels. ‘You have to stop!’
‘Mouse? What is it?’
I ran after the tractor, sprinting as fast as I could. Curtis wasn’t out looking for Harry. The tractor he was driving was carrying a bucket full of rocks. And it was heading straight towards Fatticake’s burrow!
I ducked through the fence and ran across the paddock to the tree line, weaving around the mottled boulders jutting from the soil.
‘WAIT!’ I called, taking a shortcut through the trees.
I hardly saw the ground. My feet were flying, my legs burning. Aunt Evie called out behind me, but I didn’t stop. I had to get to Fatticake before it was too late.
The tractor was still on the other side of the trees when I reached the burrow and stood in front of it, my legs like jelly.
‘Mouse! Minnie! Move away!’ screamed Aunt Evie.
Bracing my shoulders, I turned around to face the tractor, my skin prickling as it approached. It was less than 100 metres away and closing in fast. I squeezed my eyes shut. Blood pounded through my head. The tractor rumbled and clunked, and Aunt Evie yelled. But I didn’t move. I waited, my eyes and jaw clenched, for the bucket to spew a stream of sharp grey rocks over me, filling the last burrow on the farm.
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