Stripes of the Sidestep Wolf

by Sonya Hartnett

  He curled against the stump and tucked the coat around his knees, hoping the dampness of the earth would not seep through it too quickly. The wind was blowing tempestuously, a constant buffeting on his face that chilled his lips and the bluntened tip of his nose and threw his hair about roughly so it snagged on the bark and slapped at his eyes. He wanted to go home but the thought of being there made him wonder why he imagined it would be better than being here. He could hardly bear to think of meeting William, of seeing his battered face. William was his father, and he was only ill. He had tried to be a good man, and he had always loved Satchel. But everything in the past was now tainted by what Satchel had done, and everything in the future would happen in its shadow. William would not be the same father and Satchel could never be the same son. He remembered a time, years ago, when he’d been helping William string wire fencing: he had let the wire go, knowing it would whiplash backwards and strike his father, but he hadn’t really meant it to happen, he hadn’t meant the result to be so real. William had bled terribly but although he knew Satchel had done what he did deliberately, having seen a shimmer of mischief in his eyes, he had never been angry at his son, or disappointed. Perhaps he understood that boys were naturally bad sometimes, unable to help themselves. This time, things would be different. William might forgive him, but things were going to change. From now on he would see himself differently in the reflection of Satchel’s eyes.

  And Satchel had always tried to be a good son, waging the war of a lifetime against a hard little stone of malignancy that refused to accept his father’s sickness, refused to forgive or feel compassion for him. But it had had the upper hand when the moment finally came: Satchel had hit William not because he had to, but because he’d wanted to. He had enjoyed it, and would have done it again. When the time came, it hadn’t even been a contest.

  A bird cut through the space above him, a sharp pointed arrowhead rushing the air towards the mountain. It flew fast, as if it had been forgotten by its brothers and was desperate to rejoin the flock. But mountain birds as big as that were rarely flocking birds, unless they were ducks or swans: large birds were preying birds, and this one was chasing something that Satchel had not seen. He lowered his chin behind the edge of his collar, squinting into the iciness of the wind. He would miss the mountain if he went away, although the mountain was not something he thought about often, and when he did so it was sometimes with aggravation, as though the mountain stood in his way. Still, he would miss it. It had closed him in, but it had also been protective, a massive gargoyle at the gates of his world. There were no gates at the ocean: when you looked towards it, you didn’t see anything. All that water gave you no sense of how far you needed to go before you finally got somewhere. He would be alone there, and things would be strange to him.

  And if he didn’t go – if he couldn’t go – if he’d lost the chance to go because he’d delayed and delayed his decision, his feet sunk immobile in the earth, the situation would not be easier, but worse. He would be haunted by a debt he was unable to pay and Laura would feel compelled to help him. She would take more shifts at the geriatric home and her hands would crack and peel and crack deeper again: he would hear her quiet winces of pain and know who was to blame. And he would see William every day, eternally.

  He huddled on the ground, groaning softly, mud clinging to the hand he put down. The wind was freezing and making him feel scoured. He tightened his body into the smallest, warmest shape it would go. His mind was running around a circle and the constant spin of it was leaving him nauseous. He did not for one second wish he could rewind time and start the day over – he was not a dreamer. What he did do was shut his eyes against the gathering gloom and pray to God to find a way out for him, to let him stumble upon a trapdoor he had not yet noticed which would give him an answer, a solution, an alternative he had overlooked so far. He prayed to the God of his mother, who was merciful and pitying, and he prayed to the God of his father, who commanded thunderbolts and could twist the world off its axis. He pleaded for escape from the whirling of his mind, from the fear and desperation that were shrilling around after it. Give me another way, he prayed: provide.

  A whisper in the grass made him flip his eyes open and he stared, not moving. The striped animal was standing directly in front of him, its head turned away as it pointed its nose to the breeze. Its tail draped down behind it and he could see the weight of it bending the tops of the grass. The markings on its flanks stood out clearly against the buff colour of its coat. It seemed, this close, slightly smaller than he remembered it, thinner and sleeker and, from the way it stood, more furtive, more evidently a hunter. He could see how it was made for running, its legs thick and strong and sprung on wedged shoulders and a muscular rump. Alive, it looked much more capable of staying so.

  It lowered its muzzle near the earth and released something it was carrying, some leftover of a meal that flopped into the leaf litter and stayed where it was laid. The animal yawned then and its jaws opened and opened impossibly far, so its chin might have touched its chest. They snapped shut again with a neat click of teeth. Its ears were pricked but did not shift to register the sounds the animal heard. It slung its neck low and sniffed at the thing it had dropped to the earth: then it jerked its head up and, to Satchel’s surprise, gave several quick, guttural barks. The sound was taken in by the scrub and became that of branches cracking, of trees creaking, of rocks rolling, of tough, wind-slashed leaves.

  Then it swung its head and looked over its shoulder at him.

  It reacted with spectacular speed, leaping in an electrified bound some distance away. There, it spun to face him and he saw it front-on for the first time, the two large slanting ebony eyes centred above a jet, angular nose, the head smoothly flattened on top and rounded at the jaw. It had a ridge of darker hair running past its ears and down its muzzle and there was a smattering of lighter fur smeared across its chest. It stared at him without blinking and he stared back at it incredulously. Tiger, he thought stupidly: You, Thylacine.

  The grass shivered and both Satchel and the animal dipped their glance to the noise. A small creature was pawing at the dust and even in the shroud of the evening the stripes along its spine were clear, and Satchel caught his breath. When he looked away from the pup, its mother’s eyes were watching him. He could pick it up, he knew, and she seemed to know it too. He was the nearer, and she was afraid. He rose cautiously on an elbow and the tiger shifted uneasily but she would not leave until she saw what happened to her infant, and he did not know immediately what to do.

  It was a healthy, stocky young animal: she had been able to feed it well and it was too big for any pouch her slim body might conceal. Like all baby animals it was chubby in places that would eventually be sharpened, its muzzle and cheekbones, its legs and its paws. Its coat was downy and looked soft to the touch. It was gazing bewildered all around itself, wobbling to its feet in search of its mother, and when it turned its head towards him he saw its straight, pointy whiskers. He could lean across and touch it, if he wanted: he could slide a palm under its belly and lift it with one hand. He could take it home and change his world once again.

  He pushed himself slowly upwards until he was crouched on his knees and as he moved he watched the tiger, who stayed perfectly still. He wondered if she was thinking or if she was simply observing what would happen, passively accepting her fate. He suddenly decided against that, for the thylacine was a creature who defied destiny. Against terrible odds it had saved itself: it had sidestepped extinction. It had found a trapdoor.

  And now the beast was looking at him, and one lay vulnerable within the reach of his hand.

  If he found a thylacine, his life would never be the same. He remembered what Chelsea had talked about, the money and the glory. But his life wasn’t going to be the same anyway, because things were already changed. If he found a thylacine, people could forgive themselves for some of the things they’d done. They would look at a caged creature and see in it redemption
for themselves. He remembered the photographs he had seen of the last captive tiger imprisoned in the barren cell of a zoo. It had stayed close to the wire and it had died there alone. That was not the way for a survivor to live.

  He had no right to take its gift for survival and use it for himself. In the end, the only thing that would help him would be something he already owned.

  “Thylacine,” he whispered, and the striped animal raised her head slightly, listening to him. But he found he had nothing else to say to it, he couldn’t think of any words. He didn’t actually think it proper, for something like him to speak to something like it. He unfolded his legs carefully, finding his feet without haste. The thylacine tensed but did not hedge further away. He looked down at the little tiger. He longed to touch it, to ruffle the fluffy hair of its throat and run his hand over the sickle-shaped marks on its spine. But he did nothing, worried that, if he touched it, its mother would not want it back.

  He stepped away, one step after another, until he was as far from the pup as was the thylacine herself. “There,” he said, “he’s yours. I won’t take him from you.”

  But she didn’t twitch: she watched him, and every few seconds her deep eyes returned to the creature in the grass. So he moved away further and in moments the pup was lost from his sight. By the time the thylacine trod hesitantly through the clearing he could scarcely see her either, but he saw her bow her head and collect the precious burden she had left in the dirt and he saw her flit away lightly, gone before he realized.

  He stood still for ages, not knowing what to do. He was standing, he realized, in utter darkness, and he could only see at all because the pitch had snuck in unnoticed around him. He felt dazed by what had happened, and beneath that he felt a tremendous, soaring joy. His mind had ceased its awful whirling and he felt alive and unafraid. He discovered he was smiling, that he was churned with exultation and he wanted to laugh and yell. He would describe the feeling to William and tell his father that he was not wrong: sometimes, something god-like did provide. He would go to the ocean and throw his fate into the sea.

  It was dark now, and a good time to go home. He walked along the track and, impatient, he began to run, never stumbling in the blackness because, like an animal, he could see.

  SONYA HARTNETT is an award-winning author of many books for adults, young adults and children, including Thursday’s Child, winner of the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize; What the Birds See, which won the Age Book of the Year in Australia; Stripes of the Sidestep Wolf; The Ghost’s Child and Surrender, a Michael L. Printz Honor Book. Her books for younger readers include The Silver Donkey, The Midnight Zoo and Sadie and Ratz, illustrated by Ann James. In 2008, Sonya was awarded the prestigious Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award for her body of work. She lives in Australia.

  Sometimes you have to dig deep to survive

  During the long, hungry years of the Great Depression, Harper Flute’s family struggles to cope with life on the hot, dusty land. Her younger brother Tin seeks refuge in the contrast of an ancient subterranean world. A world that nurtures, but – as disturbing events in the community reveal – can also kill. A world that is silent, yet absorbs secrets. A world that has the power to change lives for ever.

  Dying is a beautiful word, like the long slow sigh of a cello

  Gabriel looks back over his brief twenty years and the time spent with his dog, Surrender, and the unruly wild boy, Finnigan, with whom Gabriel once made a boyhood pact. When a series of arson attacks grips the town, Gabriel realizes how unpredictable and dangerous Finnigan is. Events begin to spiral violently out of control, and it becomes clear that only extreme measures will rid Gabriel of Finnigan for good.

  Three children go to buy ice-cream and never return

  Most things trouble Adrian: he’s afraid of quicksand, tidal waves, self-combustion, shopping centres… A timid boy, he says little and does what he’s told. Adrian’s only friend is Clinton Tull; his one talent is for drawing. The routine of his life rarely changes – until the day the new children arrive in the house across the street. Then everything changes.

  PRAISE FOR SONYA HARTNETT

  “Few British novelists for young people deliver with such density or so uncompromisingly. Hartnett writes without self-censorship or artificial boundaries between adults’ and children’s literature.” The Guardian

  “Hartnett’s books, even when they are published on children’s lists, have the literary quality to appeal to discriminating readers of any age.” Nicolette Jones, The Sunday Times

  “Hartnett exemplifies a quality and complexity of contemporary children’s books. She is superb.” The Guardian

  “What an original and intriguing writer Sonya Hartnett is.” The Observer

  “Hartnett, often compared to Faulkner, doesn’t waste a word. Yet she can create an emotional atmosphere and conjure up a landscape like few others.” Malorie Blackman, The Observer Review

  “Sonya depicts the circumstances of young people without avoiding the darker sides of life. She does so with linguistic virtuosity and a brilliant narrative technique; her works are a source of strength.” Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award 2008 Jury

  Also by Sonya Hartnett

  Thursday’s Child

  What the Birds See

  Surrender

  The Ghost’s Child

  For younger readers

  Sadie and Ratz

  The Silver Donkey

  Midnight Zoo

  The epigraph comes from “Proverbs of Hell” in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell by William Blake

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.

  First published in Great Britain 2004 by Walker Books Ltd

  87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ

  This edition published 2018

  Text © 1999 Sonya Hartnett

  Cover illustration © 2018 Jeffrey Alan Love

  The right of Sonya Hartnett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data: a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-4063-7515-2 (ePub)

  www.walker.co.uk