Blacky appeared at our feet. He cocked his head and fixed me with those pink-rimmed eyes.
‘We have to run, mush. She’s fading fast. It might be too late already. No more creeping around.’
And then he was gone, a dirty-white blur across the track.
‘Run, guys,’ I said. ‘Follow the hound.’
We pounded through bush. Blacky moved so fast it was difficult to track him. I shouted in my head but he didn’t let up the pace. Within five minutes, the trees thinned and we entered a large clearing.
This land was dotted with bushes and the undergrowth was thick with coarse grass that came to my knees. Blacky had virtually disappeared beneath its surface. It was only by following the movement of the grass that I was able to track his route. By now, my breath was ragged and my heart thumping. And not just from exercise. Blacky’s words echoed in my head. Fading fast. Too late already. Tears stung my eyes and I had no idea where they’d come from. I brushed them aside with one arm and redoubled my efforts.
We passed over a slight ridge and came to a stop.
Blacky lay panting ten metres in front of us. He was next to a low, dense bush. The grass around the area was flattened, which was why we could see him. I took one step forward. The grass was badged in dark brown splodges.
Blood. Dried blood.
I took another pace.
I wanted so badly to see.
I wanted so badly not to see.
Blacky said nothing.
I moved slowly behind the bush. There was no animal, but there was a smell. A sickly, powerful smell of rottenness, of corruption. I knelt down and put one hand over my nose, the other hand towards the thick shrub. Close up, I could see that something had crawled in there.
I trembled as I parted the branches.
She lay on her side. Fawn-coloured with ten, maybe fifteen, chocolate-brown stripes from a stiff tail to halfway up her spine.
Her eyes met mine and she lifted her head slightly, but the effort was too much and she slumped back. I looked down at her hind leg.
It was a mess. A jagged splinter of bone jutted through fur. It must have been incredibly painful, but I knew that was the least of her worries. I knew because the source of the smell was now obvious. Her entire leg was puffy, swollen with infection. I’d heard of this. The word burst into my mind like a bomb.
Gangrene.
The tiger’s chest rose and fell in short, rapid movements.
Suddenly, the tears that had started during my run welled up afresh. I sat back on my heels and sobbed. I rocked backwards and forwards and sobbed. Dyl and John knelt beside me. I felt their arms around my shoulders. Never before had I felt such desolation.
When Blacky’s words came, they were uncharacteristically gentle.
‘You didn’t do this to her, tosh.’
‘No,’ I cried in my mind. ‘I didn’t. But other human beings made her like this. By tracking her down, making her desperate. And that makes me responsible, in part. And ashamed. I am so ashamed, Blacky.’
‘I didn’t bring you here to feel shame, Marc. This is a mission, mush, not another example of how badly humans treat the world. There is still good to be done.’
I ran my hands through my hair.
‘But how, Blacky? Me and Dyl can’t deal with this. The broken leg, maybe. But this infection . . . her leg needs amputating and we’re kids, not vets.’
Then it struck me. How could I be so stupid?
‘The hunters! They might have a car somewhere. Or a satellite phone. We could still get her treatment.’ I jumped to my feet in excitement.
‘Sit down, boyo,’ said Blacky. ‘It’s too late. She’s dying. She knows it. She’d be dead before you could get her one kilometre, let alone the hundred to the nearest vet.’
I slumped back down and put my hand very carefully on the tiger’s chest. She gazed at me with pain-filled eyes. And it was anger that surged through me then. I could feel it rise from the tiger’s skin and tingle through my veins. Anger at what we had done to the world, but also anger at Blacky. It felt hot in my blood.
‘But you knew about this, Blacky,’ I spat. ‘You could have told me where she was. I could have told someone. Phil. He’d have saved her.’
‘Her leg was broken, boyo. It could have been fixed. I only found out about the infection yesterday when I came to bring her food. Remember I said I had an errand? That was it. Bringing her the dried beef I’d stockpiled.’
The explanation wasn’t good enough.
‘But there was still time,’ I cried. ‘We could’ve got a vet here. How could you make that choice, Blacky? To let her die here in agony?’
‘It wasn’t my choice, mush,’ said Blacky. ‘It was Tess’s. She told me that under no circumstances was I to bring anyone but you and Dylan. Her decision. I had to respect that and so must you.’
My anger died then. It dribbled away and in its place was a dark, echoing hole.
‘I don’t understand, Blacky. What good can I possibly do now?’
‘This, tosh.’
He must have said something to the tiger, because she lifted her back leg. She flinched in pain and a thick ooze of pus burst from her wound. But it wasn’t the pus that drew my attention. It wasn’t even the reek of rotting flesh. It was the pouch between her legs.
And the three puppies curled within it.
‘I belong here,’ said Tess. ‘This is my world. Not in a cage, pacing to and fro for the rest of my life. Not in a laboratory where I will be cut open, like others before me. When I die, bury me here. Bury me where others of your kind will never find me. Promise.’
Blacky was the go-between. Tess’s words appeared in my head, but it was his voice I heard.
‘I promise,’ I said. What else was there to say?
‘Thank you. And I ask you to make sure my children – my three beautiful daughters – do not fall into the hands of humans. It would mean their deaths.’
‘They’d be looked after,’ I said. Humans were bad. But we weren’t that bad. The puppies would be raised carefully. Better than most kids. Back from extinction? They would be the royalty of the animal world. Cosseted, pampered, given the best of care.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Tess. ‘When others of my kind were captured by humans, they lost the will to live. They never bred in captivity. Not once. Instead, they withered. It might have taken years until they drew their last breath, but they were already dead inside. I don’t want that to happen to my children.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘I promise I’ll try. But Tess, I’m a kid. I can’t raise your daughters by myself. And there are people searching for us. Searching for you, too. I don’t know if I can succeed in this.’
I suppose I could have lied. Life was draining from her by the second. I watched, helplessly, as it ebbed away. And maybe it would have been kinder to let her go believing things would turn out okay. But I couldn’t. Blacky was right. She deserved respect. She deserved the truth.
‘All I ask is that you do your best,’ she said. ‘But if it cannot be, I have one last request.’
I nodded.
‘That you kill my puppies. Quickly. Humanely. And bury them with me.’
She must have seen the horror on my face.
‘At least they will have lived and died in freedom,’ she continued. ‘Promise me.’
I couldn’t say anything. I nodded again, but it was just a movement. I was empty inside.
‘You are a good person, Marcus. Blacky has told me about you and your friend, Dylan. I would never have wanted my children’s fate to be left in the hands of a human, but if it must be so, then I am glad you are the one. I’m glad.’
There was so much I wanted to say, but in the end only one thing meant anything.
‘I’m sorry, Tess. I’m so sorry.’
There was a pause.
‘She knew that, mush. She knew it.’
I stared at Blacky and then at Tess. Her chest no longer rose and fell. Her eyes were glassy and
staring. Whatever lived behind them once had fled.
John Oakman tapped me on the shoulder.
‘People,’ he said. ‘Here.’
The bush covered us. I carefully poked my head out. Two people, maybe a quarter of a kilometre away. Two people buried under a mountain of camping gear. Yup, our tiger hunters might stand out like an Akubra on a polar bear but they had an uncanny knack of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were scanning the ground. I wondered for a moment what they were tracking, and then I realised it was us. We’d left a path of beaten grass in our mad run through the bush. Even as I watched, another couple of people appeared from a slightly different direction.
Jimmy and Mr Crannitch. They headed towards us as well.
We ducked back behind the shrub. Brilliant! Fantastic! Of all times to get company, this had to be the worst. I estimated we had five or six minutes before certain discovery. At least it gave me another problem to focus on. I was grateful to put Tess’s last words out of my mind for a while.
‘They mustn’t find us, guys,’ I said. ‘If anyone has any brilliant ideas how we’re going to get out of this, now would be a good time to share them.’
No reply. Dyl scratched his head. John was still processing the request. If I waited until he understood what was required, we’d be back on the mainland establishing a Guinness Book of Records entry for longest grounding in history. For once, there was nothing from Blacky. Four of us and not even a glimmering of an idea.
‘A decoy,’ I said, more to myself than anything. ‘We need something to attract their attention, get them to move away from here.’
And even as I said it, the idea popped up like one of those light-bulb-over-the-head moments. It was brilliant. It was magnificent. It was the product of a mind bordering on genius.
‘No way, mush,’ came Blacky’s voice in my head. ‘I have my dignity, you know.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I replied. ‘Dignity, huh? And rolling in poo helps that how?’
‘You might not consider it dignified, tosh, but believe me, among my own kind, I’m considered the very height of refinement.’
‘Never mind, Blacky. Time is ticking and this is something you have to do. Anyway, you’re built for it.’ I examined him carefully and nearly reconsidered. Blacky is dirty-white, small, with a stumpy tail and a black patch over one eye. He actually wasn’t built for this. Then again, maybe we had time to effect a makeover . . .
As Blacky read my mind, he took a step backwards and I realised I’d have to argue later. I jumped forward and pinned the squirming mutt to the ground.
‘Quick, Dyl. Hold Blacky down,’ I said. I was treated to a close-up of one of Blacky’s rolling eyes. Master of disguise? I thought. Time to put your money where your mouth is, tosh.
Dyl wasn’t keen. He had plenty of experience with Blacky and knew that in a toss-up between confronting a bad-tempered, flick-knife-wielding death adder or tackling the foul-smelling hound, the snake was the wiser option. He did it, though.
‘John,’ I said once my hands were free. ‘I need a short length of your parachute cord and a small branch from that shrub.’
Luckily, John was quicker when it came to practical matters than with concepts. I had a small piece of cord and a half-metre of branch within seconds. Of course, tying the branch to Blacky’s tail wasn’t very easy. He’s only got a short stump of a thing—
‘Oi, tosh. Watch your mouth. That tail may be challenged in terms of length, but I’m very attached to it.’
—and getting the branch to stay in place rather than dragging along the ground was tricky. In the end, there wasn’t time. It would have to do. Then I spat into the dirt and mixed it around with my fingers. The fifteen stripes I made across Blacky’s back and flanks weren’t chocolate brown, but they were dark. I sat on my heels and examined my handiwork.
Blacky wasn’t a dead ringer for a Tasmanian tiger. He was too small for one thing. And entirely the wrong colour. In fact, he looked like a small dirty-white dog with a branch stuck on his tail doing a totally putrid impersonation of a pygmy zebra. But I was banking on the hunters getting carried away by the moment.
Dyl let Blacky go. I noticed he kept his hands well away from the dog’s jaws, which, under the circumstances, was wise. But Blacky had apparently come to accept that my plan had merit, even if it dented his self-esteem.
‘I want you to know that if you ever spread this story, tosh, you’re dead.’ I cocked my head this time. ‘I dumped on your doona once,’ he continued. ‘Next time it’ll be your face.’
‘Very refined,’ I replied. ‘Now go, Blacky. Run like the wind.’
I peered through a small gap in the bush. The hunters were no more than twenty metres away and heading straight towards us. Everything now depended on Blacky’s acting skills and the hunters being complete bozos. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about either.
When Blacky leaped out from behind the bush, the hunters halted as if they’d stood on garden rakes and been smacked between the eyes by the handles. Fear and confusion spread across their faces, quickly followed by waves of excitement and joy. I could almost read their minds.
‘A Tasmanian tiger! Finally! Okay, it looks like a pale and ugly runt with dodgy stripes and foliage sticking out its bum, but it’s got to be a tiger!’
George fumbled for his camera while Blacky stood and gave a clear view of his stripes. He even tried to wag his branch but I think it must have been too heavy. Then he took off into the long grass. The hunters yelped and gave chase. It was easy to see where Blacky was heading. The swaying of the grass showed his every movement. But he wasn’t content with that. Every fifty metres or so he jumped into the air. I don’t think his new tail helped much, because he wasn’t very aerodynamic. But each time his squat body appeared over the top of the grass, George and Gloria nearly pooped their pants in excitement and redoubled their efforts to catch him.
It was Blacky’s finest moment.
I vowed that, when this was all over, I’d present him with an Oscar for Best Small Dog with a Branch Stuck Up Its Bum Impersonating a Tasmanian Tiger Impersonating a Wallaby.
Somehow, I reckoned the shortlist for this category wouldn’t be too long.
He disappeared over the brow of a hill. Within moments the hunters had also vanished, along with the sound of clashing pots and pans. I let out a long sigh. Success!
Then I peered through the bush again.
Failure!
Maybe Jimmy and Mr Crannitch weren’t fooled. Maybe they didn’t care. Whatever, they were still heading straight for us. I buried my head in my hands. I gave up. I was tired and out of ideas. I was only dimly aware, through my dark, depressing fog, of Dyl and John whispering to each other.
Dyl touched my arm.
‘Down to you now, mate,’ he said. ‘Catch you later.’
Then he and John jumped out from the bush and ran into the knee-high grass. This time, it was Jimmy and Mr Crannitch who halted in their tracks as if they’d struck an invisible wall.
‘Hey, Jimmy, ya hairy Scottish balloon,’ yelled Dyl. ‘You can kiss our spotty butts!’
And he and John dropped their dacks and mooned them.
There was silence. It was certainly a day for bizarre sights. I don’t know which was more surprising, the vision of Dyl’s and John’s bums reflecting the pale sunlight or the way Jimmy’s and Mr Crannitch’s jaws crashed onto their boots. But, in a few seconds, Dyl and John had gathered in their rear ends and legged it into the distance.
Jimmy and Mr C continued acting like stunned mullets and then gave chase. Jimmy was super-fit. You could see his bandy legs, heavy with hair and muscle, whirring like a demented fan. Mr C trailed behind, weaving slightly as he followed.
John and Dyl, I reckoned, would eventually be caught. Jimmy might be old but I got the impression he had staying power and lungs like high-performance pistons. They’d bought me time, though. Within a minute I was alone in the landscape.
Alone that is,
except for a battered body at my feet and three small bundles of life.
You will have to take my word for it, but the body of a tiger is heavy. Particularly when it has three young still attached. It took all my strength to lift Tess. My knees buckled under the strain. But I had to move her. The spots of dried blood would probably disappear in a day or two, washed away by rain, but I couldn’t take the chance of someone discovering the evidence if I buried her there.
I had a promise to fulfil.
I stumbled through the bush for maybe an hour. I had to stop often and shift Tess’s weight in my arms, which felt like they’d been injected with lead. After a while I didn’t even notice the smell. Sweat stung my eyes. I didn’t really have a destination. I just needed to put space between myself and that bush.
Finally, the decision about destination was taken for me. I sagged to my knees and, try as I might, couldn’t get to my feet again. This place, wherever it was, would have to do.
I looked around. The trees were sparse but provided some cover. The ground was soft. I placed Tess down carefully and started to dig.
The first ten centimetres was easy. The soil parted between my fingers and I scooped it into a mound. But then it became more difficult. There were roots crisscrossing the forest floor and I couldn’t snap them. I sat and wiped my forehead with one muddy hand. Then I opened my backpack. Maybe the emergency pack would contain a knife. It didn’t. But I found a metal mug and dug with that. It couldn’t get through the roots but, little by little, I made space.
Depth was the key. I didn’t want her body dug up by predators. I remembered what I’d read about Tasmanian devils. They were carrion feeders and would eat the bodies of anything they found. I couldn’t remember if they would dig to find food, but I wasn’t prepared to take the chance. Centimetre by slow centimetre I dug.
‘Need a hand, mush? Or should I say a paw?’
I was so tired I could barely lift my head.
Blacky had lost the tail. All that springing around like a jack-in-the-box must have dislodged it. Most of his stripes had disappeared, too. A small image from Blacky’s mind popped into mine. A dog on its back, rubbing and writhing against coarse grass. He looked like himself again and I was pleased to see him.
Blacky Blasts Back Page 9