Meet Poppy

by Gabrielle Wang

  It was morning. Diamonds of light reflected off the water. They were pulling away from the dock.

  We’re on our way! Poppy smiled.

  As the day passed, she spied from her hiding place ibis and water fowl, herons and egrets. Huge flocks of cockatoos screeched from the branches of the river red gums. Sometimes she would see a settler’s humpy nestled amongst the trees. Or someone washing clothes in the river. Or a drover bringing cattle down to drink.

  They travelled all through the day and into the evening. Lights from the boat made the trees dance against a blue-black sky. Poppy ate, hummed, slept and dreamed curled up in her silk-covered princess throne.

  Suddenly the engines switched off. When Poppy peeked out, there were men standing on the bank beside a pile of newly cut logs. The boat moved in close to the bank and a gangplank was lowered.

  Poppy had seen the big boiler with a fire beneath it.The steam turned the paddles, which made the boat move. The men began loading the wood while the passengers strolled along the bank, stretching their arms and legs. They look rich, Poppy thought, in their frockcoats and tall hats, shimmering dresses and bonnets. She wiped the sweat from her brow. While the paddlesteamer was moving, there was a steady breeze, but now they were stationary, she was sweltering under the canvas cover.

  ‘Wait ’ere while I git a barrel of whiskey for ya,’ Poppy heard one man say. She froze. The whisky barrels were on the barge!

  Then she felt a tug and the barge being dragged slowly towards the shore.

  POPPY’S only escape was into the water on the far side of the barge. But she couldn’t swim. What am I going to do? she thought desperately. Poppy knew there was no place to hide if the whole canvas cover was lifted. She quickly tied her boots together, grabbed her satchel and scrambled to the far end, away from the barrels of whiskey. As she felt the barge bump against the shore, she hid behind a wool bale, her heart pounding in her ears and chest.

  Light split the dark in two, blinding Poppy for a moment. She felt the barge tip as two silhouetted figures climbed on board.

  Without thinking, Poppy slipped over the side.

  The water was freezing as she lowered herself down with one hand, holding her satchel above her head with the other. Just before the water reached her neck, her feet touched the mud on the bottom. She let out a sigh of relief.

  Poppy waded to where the reeds along the shore grew thick and dense. There she would hide till the men had gone.

  Even though the day was warm, the water was cold and she couldn’t stop shivering. Her arms and legs ached. Her teeth chattered. If only the men would hurry up. They had finished unloading the barrels, but were now standing around talking. Something about the bushranger Harry Power.

  At last they climbed on board. The engines fired up, black smoke belched from the funnel, and the boat chugged away. The woodcutters, too, mounted their wagon and rumbled off down the track.

  As soon as the wagon was lost in the trees, Poppy waded to the shore. Her hands trembled so badly she could barely unbutton her shirt. When she finally got out of her wet clothes, she hung them on the bushes to dry, then sat down in the warm sun to thaw out and to think.

  She realised she was on the other side of the river, in New South Wales – the opposite side to Wahgunyah and to the town of Beechworth, where Gus was headed. How was she going to get across now?

  When her clothes were dry, Poppy set off down a small path that ran alongside the water. Bushes of flat red berries grew everywhere, so she stopped to eat. Gus’s training of bush foods was coming in handy. A lizard sunning itself darted under a rock as she pulled at a branch and shook it. The ripe red berries fell to the ground and she ate them greedily.

  All that day Poppy walked, looking for a place to cross. But the water was too deep and too wide. At a bend in the river she saw a small cove and a huge river red gum standing alone like a giant with its arms outstretched, welcoming her. Half way up its trunk, gathered in its branches, was a mass of dried leaves and twigs. It looked like a gigantic bird’s nest. She walked up to the tree and patted the trunk. Gus had taught her to respect all trees, especially the old ones. They were grandfathers of the forest. Using the knobs and bumps in the gnarled trunk, she climbed up into the branches.

  For the first time that day, Poppy’s muscles relaxed. It was as if she was being carried in the heart of the tree, warm and safe.

  With her tree house secure for the night, Poppy finished the rest of her cheese, which was beginning to go mouldy, and cut some dried meat. Then she lay back, said a small prayer and watched the sky turn from blue to deep red. Then black.

  A few hours later she was awakened by a terrifying howl.

  Poppy sat bolt upright. Where was she? She felt around her. Oh, my nest. Her eyes adjusted to the dark. Then she gasped. In the moonlight she saw a large dog trotting towards the base of her tree.

  She sat rigid, not daring to breathe as it came closer and closer. If it was a dingo, Poppy wouldn’t have been worried. Gus said dingos were more scared of people. But this looked like a wild dog, a very large wild dog.

  The dog lifted his head and sniffed the air. He stood on his hind legs, resting his front paws on the trunk.

  Poppy’s fingers closed around the hilt of her knife.

  ‘Good dog. Good boy. I’m only staying for one night.’ She spoke in a soft calm voice.

  A low growl came from the dog’s throat and he laid back his ears.

  ‘Go on home, now,’ she urged. ‘I promise I’ll be gone by the morning.’ Poppy’s voice was shaking so she began to hum ‘The Bellbird Song’. The notes were soft and tentative at first but then she sang the words. To her surprise, the wild dog dropped to the ground and trotted away.

  Poppy listened all night for the dog to return.

  In the morning, she looked over the side of her nest. Tracks led around the tree, down to the water’s edge and back again. She looked up and down the river. Only then did she spot the dog, on the other bank.

  Surely he couldn’t have swum that far!

  Now was her chance to get away. She quickly climbed down then stood for a moment watching, the safety of the water between them. The dog was beautiful, with pale grey fur and a proud and noble head. He looked more like a wolf, but how strangely he was acting.

  He was standing by a partially submerged log, not moving, just staring into the water as though admiring his own reflection. Then suddenly, he plunged his whole head under the surface. When he came up, he was holding a large flapping fish in his mouth!

  Poppy couldn’t believe it. She watched as the dog placed his paw on the fish and began tearing at the flesh, snapping through the bones. After he had eaten every scrap – tail, head and all – he lay down, panting gently.

  The dog looked at her but then he pricked up his ears and stared upstream.

  It took Poppy a few moments before she heard it too – the soft chug chug chug of another paddlesteamer. Quickly she ran behind the big tree as the boat came into view. It travelled towards her and she saw people standing on the deck.

  As it passed she heard snippets of their conversation about the goldfields and meeting up with relatives and friends. There was also mention of the gold at Beechworth and Rutherglen. Then, someone pointed and shouted.

  ‘Look at that massive brute! Anyone got a pistol? I feel like a bit of sport today.’

  No! Don’t shoot him! Poppy wanted to yell. But she was too afraid they might shoot her for sport instead.

  She looked at the dog, who remained in the one spot watching the boat.

  The man took aim.

  Poppy shut her eyes. Then she heard a gunshot ring out.

  There was a yelp from the far bank. When Poppy opened her eyes again, she saw the dog limping up the embankment and disappearing into the bushes.

  ‘Looks like you winged him, Freddie.’

  ‘Can’t you men think of anything better to do than shoot a poor harmless dog?’ said a lady sitting under a parasol.

 
‘They’re pests, my dear. They kill the pastoralists’ sheep, just like those damned natives,’ the man replied.

  And then the paddlesteamer was gone and silence returned to the river.

  If I hadn’t been such a coward … Poppy sat down on a large rock feeling frustrated and angry with herself. She should have continued on her way but she was worried about the wild dog. Someone has to see if he’s all right. Someone has to take care of him if he’s hurt, she thought.

  Poppy waited for him all morning and into the afternoon. Eventually she dozed off, curled up in the heart of the big tree.

  It was a bird, a crow high up in the branches, that woke her. And there the dog was, lying at the base of the tree licking a wound in his side.

  ‘You’re here!’ Poppy cried.

  The dog thumped his tail in the sand.

  Poppy spoke in a quiet, soothing voice as she climbed down. When she reached the ground, she slowly put her hand out for the dog to sniff it. Then she touched his nose, the top of his head and his ears, which were softer than silk.

  ‘Good boy, good boy,’ she said, stroking his chin. He seemed to like it and lifted his head as if he was remembering how good it once felt.

  ‘Did you belong to somebody too?’ she said. ‘Are you an orphan like me? My name’s Kalinya. And I’m going to call you Fisher.’ Poppy didn’t know why she told Fisher her Aboriginal name, but it felt right, out here in the wilderness talking to a wild creature.

  Poppy sat back, smiling. She went to stroke Fisher again but he stood up, shook himself, and trotted into the bush.

  THE wind whipped across the surface of the river as grey clouds gathered.

  Poppy looked across to the opposite bank and shivered. Her stomach ached with hunger. There were plenty of kangaroos in the bush. And ducks and fish in the river. But without a gun or trap or fishing line, she didn’t have a hope of catching anything, except for a lizard, maybe, with her knife. But she was never quick enough. Gus hadn’t taught her about the old ways of hunting. Her only real hope was to find a town and buy something to eat there with the few coins she had in her pocket. Even if it meant getting caught, she had to chance it.

  Something made a noise beside her. Poppy turned, hoping to see Fisher come trotting out of the bushes. But it was only a branch snapping in the wind.

  With a sigh, she picked up her satchel. In the back of her mind she had hoped that he would go with her. But why should he? This was his home. Why would he want to leave it?

  Then Poppy smelled a most delicious aroma. There were three smells, really. The first was smoke from a fire. Then meat … scrumptious, delicious meat stewing in a pot. And freshly baked bread. She had to find out where they were coming from.

  Poppy crept through the bush until she came to a clearing. Two men sat on a log by the fire. She ducked down behind a tree, watching them.

  ‘These boots’ll be the death of me,’ one of the men said as he rubbed his bare foot. His boots lay on the ground beside him.

  ‘I told you, you should’na taken those poor sod’s belongins. ’Tis wrong to rob from the dead, Smithy.’

  The man called Smithy shrugged. Then he leaned towards the fire. ‘Give us them plates. Food’s ready.’ He pulled a black pot from the coals and lifted the lid.

  Poppy was so hungry she could barely stand the smell and the sight of the stew he ladled onto the metal plates. She wanted to rush out and beg like a starving dog. But the memory of those mean boys by the river held her back. What if they guessed she was a runaway and returned her to the mission? Then she would be taken away by that family to Sydney town and any chance of seeing Gus again would be gone.

  All of a sudden she heard a gruff voice behind her yell, ‘Bail up!’

  Poppy froze. She looked around and saw a horse with a rider not five yards away from where she was hiding. He had his pistol drawn, pointing straight at the two men. Poppy was petrified! She curled herself into a ball, hoping the man wouldn’t see her. He urged his horse forward into the clearing.

  Looking terrified, the two men held their hands high in the air.

  ‘Hand o’er yer money as quick as the divil will let ye an’ ye’ll not be harmed,’ the man on the horse said. He threw a small sack onto the ground. ‘Drop everything into that satchel.’

  ‘But … we ain’t got nuffink of any value, sir,’ the man called Smithy said.

  ‘Demmit, Smithy,’ the other man whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Don’t you know who he is? It’s the bushranger, ’arry Power. Jist give ’im the gold, will ya.’

  ‘Harry Power?’ Smithy said, his eyes widening.

  Poppy trembled even more at the sound of the bushranger’s name.

  ‘Ah, dere be gold now? Well, hand it over and be quick. This pistol’s loaded and by de tails of me coat I’ll lodge de contents in yer big thick carcasses.’

  ‘Y … yessir, Mr Power, sir.’ Smithy hurried to the tent and returned with two small bags. He gingerly stepped forward, stuffed them in the sack then handed it to the bushranger.

  ‘I tank ye kindly,’ Harry Power said. ‘Now de two of ye git out o’ me sight.’ The bushranger raised his pistol as if he was going to shoot.

  Smithy grabbed his boots and hobbled barefoot into the bush as fast as he could. His friend followed, looking back once with a terrified expression on his face.

  The bushranger put the sack of gold into his saddlebag and stuffed his pistol in his belt. Then to Poppy’s horror he climbed off his horse and squatted in front of the fire. He took up the plate of stew and began eating.

  Her heart raced as she peeked out through the branches. Harry Power is far more dangerous than those two men who have just run away, she thought.

  ‘Come out o’ there, young pup,’ Harry Power said, suddenly turning around to stare at her. ‘There’s soda bread an’ boiled meat enuf fer the both of us if ye be wanting it.’

  Poppy hardly dared to breathe. His piercing blue eyes were looking straight at her.

  ‘Come on with ye now,’ he said, ladling out another plate of stew and setting it on the ground. ‘There’s nothing to fear.’

  Poppy stood up with her hands in the air and made her way slowly towards the log.

  Harry Power laughed loudly. ‘Ye can lower yer hands, lad. Sit down now and eat. Ye look half starved.’

  Her eyes fell on the plate of rich stew and all of a sudden it was the most important thing in Poppy’s life. She took up the plate and ate greedily.

  ‘Stiddy now, young pup. Ye’ll make yerself sick as a dog.’

  Poppy barely heard what the bushranger had said. Nothing else existed but the spoon in her hand and the plate of food on her lap.

  Harry Power watched with amusement as Poppy soaked up every trace of the gravy with the soda bread. ‘What’s yer name, boy?’

  Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand Poppy replied. ‘Kal …’ And then in a louder, deeper voice, ‘It’s Kal, sir.’

  ‘Well, take care of yerself then, Kal,’ the bushranger said and stood up. ‘Ye can tell all of yer friends that ye ate with the famous Harry Power.’ Then he mounted his horse, kicked its flanks and rode off.

  Poppy stared after him. That bushranger wasn’t so bad after all.

  The food had given her strength and her tummy felt warm and full. But she knew the feeling wouldn’t last. She still needed to find food for the rest of the journey. Poppy placed the remains of the soda bread in her satchel and hurried along the track. She had to move quickly, now, before it was too late to find Gus in Beechworth.

  She stopped, and thought she heard a crackling in the bush that stopped a second after she did. Was somebody following her? But when she looked around she saw nothing.

  As she quickly pushed forward, the bush cleared and she found herself at the edge of a little township. Soon the track grew busy with people, horses and wagons. It must be Tocumwal, Poppy thought, the place the bullocky had told me about. She pulled her hat down low over her eyes so as not to draw attentio
n to herself.

  The town consisted of a narrow street with a few shops and some stables.

  But she didn’t have time to stop. She needed to buy food. That was all that mattered. She was looking for a bakery. And there it was, on the other side of the street.

  The door had small square panes of glass and a board with the words ‘Mrs Clutterbuck’s’ and a painting of a smiling lady breaking apart a steaming loaf of bread. At the entrance, Poppy stood to one side to let a woman with a small boy come out of the shop first. The woman looked Poppy up and down in disgust, then pulled the boy away.

  Poppy wanted to shout at her, but bit her lip instead. What good would it do? Then she smiled to herself. Maybe it’s because I smell. It had been days since her last bath.

  Poppy fumbled in her jacket pocket for the coins.

  ‘What can I get you, son?’ A lady with rosy cheeks asked. She looked exactly like the painting on the board out the front.

  ‘One of those, please …’ Poppy said, pushing the coins across the counter and pointing to a basket filled with loaves of bread.

  The lady took a coin and handed the other back. Then she pulled out a loaf with her pudgy fingers.

  Poppy took the bread and turned to go but Mrs Clutterbuck called her back.

  She reached under the counter. ‘This is a couple of days old. You can have it for nothing,’ she said, smiling. Poppy’s eyes lit up. The loaf was even bigger than the one she had just bought.

  She thanked Mrs Clutterbuck politely and walked out of the shop, a loaf under each arm. Poppy felt as rich as a princess. It’s my lucky day, she thought.

  Further along was the telegraph office. Poppy saw something pinned to a noticeboard that stopped her in her tracks.

  She stared at a piece of paper filled with Chinese writing. At the bottom was a red seal. Poppy scrambled in her satchel, fumbling with the loaves of bread. Finally she found it, the letter with the Chinese writing. She held it up and compared the two seals. They were the same. She couldn’t believe it! Could the person who wrote the letter have also written this poster? Then she looked more carefully. At the bottom was one word that she could read – Wahgunyah.