Carnivorous Nights

by Margaret Mittelbach

  Palana, the little star, was the son of Moinee. As a boy he loved to wander in the bush and had many happy adventures. One day, however, he had a nasty encounter with Tarner, the big boomer kangaroo.

  Tarner was huge and powerful, and in a very short time Palana, even though he was the son of the great Moinee, was in dire trouble. The boomer knocked him sprawling and attacked him with his huge heavy hind feet.

  Somehow Palana managed to get up, but when he tried to run away Tarner caught him in his arms and quickly throwing him again to the ground, began to stamp the life out of him.

  Palana screamed as loudly as he could, “Help! Help!”

  The echoes chased around the bush, rushing from tree to tree, crag to crag.

  A nameless hyena pup, enjoying an unequal chase with Lenira, the Bandicoot, heard the cries. He stopped chasing Lenira, who could not believe his good luck, and raced to help.

  Fearless, the hyena pup leaped into the fight, ripping and tearing at the big boomer. Tarner picked up the boy, and backing against a rock, squeezed until Palana felt his life almost ebbing. The Great Kangaroo kept the young hyena at bay with his big raking hind feet.

  The smart pup quickly dashed up onto the rock and sprang at Tarner, driving his sharp fangs deep into the big animal's throat. Holding the boy with one forearm, Tarner clutched desperately at the brave pup trying to break the deathhold he had on the kangaroo's throat.

  But the little hyena was there to stay.

  Body tense and eyes closed, he concentrated all his strength in the mighty effort to close his jaws. Slowly he felt the flesh and sinew give under the pressure of his grip, and suddenly his teeth crashed together with a loud snap.

  The big boomer staggering and trembling violently, crashed to the ground, taking Palana and the pup with him.

  They lay motionless, exhausted and stunned beside their dead enemy.

  Some time later a party of blackmen picked up the unconscious pair and carried them back to the camp. The pup recovered first. Soon Palana stirred and looked about him.

  There he saw Moinee, the god, his father.

  Walking up to Palana, the god smiled down at him and said, “You have done well for one so young, my son. You have come through your baptism of danger bravely and unaffected. In a very short period of time you have passed from childhood and now stand on the threshold of young manhood. So be it.”

  Straightaway the little boy arose and stood proudly.

  He appeared to ignore his father so intent was his gaze on the hyena pup. Moinee read Palana's thoughts and a look of admiration crossed his stern face.

  “From today you will make your own decisions,” Moinee said, “and you will bestow your own rewards.”

  But Palana heard not a word.

  Walking over to the little hyena, the boy put his arms around the torn and bleeding neck, gently helping the pup as he rose painfully to his feet on tired, wobbly legs.

  Looking into the weary yellow eyes, Palana said, “Truly you are the bravest of the brave. Today you fought not as a pup but as the Wurrawana Corinna, the Great Ghost Tiger.”

  Kneeling down beside the pup, Palana reached down to where his blood had run into the ashes of the fire, and with his fingers, mixed the blood and the ashes into a thick paste.

  Then, with this thick brown paste, Palana described a number of dark stripes across the pup's back from the top of his shoulders to the butt of his rigid tail, saying as he did so, “From this day forward, all shall know you as Corinna the Tiger.”

  The story of the Great Ghost Tiger seemed dimly familiar. We thought about the rock art Les Bursill had shown us on the mainland. The stripes on that four-thousand-year-old thylacine drawing had been made using charcoal from an aboriginal campfire, too.

  We continued along the highway until we reached the town of Deloraine, where we decided to spend the night at a “hotel,” a bar with accommodations attached. The walls of our room, a triple with three lumpy beds, were cotton candy pink.

  At dusk we walked down to the river that flowed through town and onto a bridge built with stone masonry. From underneath, we heard cooing and the flapping of wings. Pigeons flew into view. “You can never escape the usual suspects,” said Alexis.

  The river—called the Meander—presented a beautiful scene. The sunset was a flamelike mix of orange and yellow and the trees lining the banks were reflected on the slow-moving, placid water. The few houses on the river were Georgian and Victorian in style. The setting evoked a tranquil river town in England—an effect that was slightly tempered by the sound of local youths drag racing on a road that paralleled the far bank.

  Down at the river's edge, we gazed at the colors of the sunset on the water. Alexis took out his pipe and lit it. As he began to inhale, we heard a burbling noise. At first we thought he had put a bong attachment on his pipe, but then we traced the sound to the middle of the river. A dark form was blowing bubbles just under the surface.

  We squinted, trying to identify the creature. In the waning light, we saw that the stream of bubbles was coming out of a ducklike bill attached to some sort of furry animal. The only thing that could have surprised us more was a shark fin breaking the surface.

  “One platypussums,” said Alexis in a singsong voice.

  The bubble trail moved toward us. Then with a splash, the platypus dived underwater. Reeds rustled along the bank by our feet, and the platypus disappeared.

  “I think it just went into its burrow,” Alexis said. We envisioned the platypus curled up in a muddy tube in the riverbank somewhere below where we were standing.

  It seemed impossible that a platypus would be so acclimated to human activities. What was one of the strangest animals in the world doing swimming alongside a Tasmanian village with a pub not two hundred steps away and keeping company with a bunch of pigeons?

  We waited a few minutes, but the platypus didn't emerge from its riverbank home. As we followed the Meander upriver, however, we soon observed the telltale bubbles of another platypus. It was repeatedly diving and re-emerging, so we were able to see tantalizing bits of its unusual body. A beaverlike tail … splash splash … a webbed foot topped with long claws … plop, splash … a bill … bubble bubble … a smooth head with no apparent ears … splash.

  “They're unconvincing as an animal even in real life,” said Alexis.

  It was true. The platypus was an animal that continued to stupefy people with its bizarre combination of parts. We had to sympathize with someone like David Collins, who was the first European to publish an account of a live platypus. In his description, he played down the duckbill, either because he did not know what to make of it or perhaps fearing he wouldn't be believed. First, he labeled the platypus as an “amphibious animal, of the mole species.” Then he described the platypus's feet in great detail (webbing between the toes, claws) and only at the end did he mention the curious fact that the “mole” had a duckbill—perhaps hoping that readers would accept this idea once they knew a few believable details about the creature.

  According to Touch the Morning, Tasmanian aboriginal legend said the platypus was originally two animals, a burrowing mammal and a duck. Together, these two creatures double-teamed young frogs, chasing them into a riverbank burrow and eating them. As punishment, they were torn apart and mashed together again into one half-and-half beast minus the duck's feathers and the mammal's hind legs.

  When the first platypus specimens from Australia were sent back to England in 1798, people thought they were two unrelated animals sewn together. A faked-up mermaid (which was commonly fabricated from monkey remains and fishtails) was more understandable. At least mermaids were well-known mythical creatures. But who would believe an otter-and-duck combination?

  In the end, scientists discovered that the platypus was not only real, but even weirder than was immediately apparent. For one thing, the platypus seemed to be some sort of reptile-mammal hybrid that broke the bounds of the existing classification systems. The platypus had fur like a mam
mal, but laid eggs like a bird or reptile. It had mammary glands (the hallmark of being a mammal) and nursed its young with milk—but it didn't have nipples. Instead, the platypus produced milk from slits in its abdomen. And like reptiles and birds, it had a cloaca—one hole from which to pee, defecate, have sex, and lay eggs. (Male platypuses did, however, have a separate penis.)

  While watching the platypus repeatedly dive and blow bubbles in the Meander, we discussed how this amazing egg-laying mammal was ultimately placed by scientists within the unromantically named classification of monotreme.

  There are three classifications of mammals in the world: placentals, marsupials, and monotremes. Placental mammals (like us humans, dogs, cats, rabbits, and lions) are named after the nurturing organ that surrounds the fetus. (We placentals are also called eutherian, which translates as “well-formed beast.”) Marsupials (kangaroos, thylacines, devils) are named after marsupium—the Latin word for pouch, which sounds nice and comfy. But monotremes (just the platypus and echidna) are named for their “one hole” (mono = one, treme = hole). This was, Alexis noted, “a massive failure in public relations.”

  “Someone should promote the platypus's venomous character,” he suggested. We didn't think platypuses needed too much more publicity, but it was true that this was an attribute that was not commonly known.

  Male platypuses have inch-long retractable spurs on their hind legs (on the inner side of their heels) that are remarkably similar in structure to the fangs of a pit viper. From these curving, hollow spurs, they can—when bothered—inject a powerful cocktail of poisons, four of which are not known to occur anywhere else in nature.

  Scientists are unclear when male platypuses use their spurs in the wild—possibly against rival males during mating season. But male platypuses have been known to spur people who pick them up, most commonly platypus researchers. Platypus venom causes pain that is said to be exquisite. No known painkiller can lessen it or make it more bearable. Even giving morphine to victims has no effect, and the venom from a single platypus spur can paralyze a limb for weeks.

  “What if you picked one up and it spurred you in the balls?” Alexis said. “That would be the ultimate blunder Down Under.”

  Maybe for “publicity” purposes, the platypus would be better off focusing on another of its little-known attributes. The platypus's bill conceals an amazing ability—and despite appearances, it is nothing like a duck's. A duckbill is hard, stiff, and inflexible. It's made of keratin, the same substance in fingernails. But a platypus's bill is pliable, covered with skin, and filled with nerve endings that can sense electrical impulses. Strip away the outer layers and the skeleton of a platypus bill looks like a divining rod—and that's exactly what it is. The platypus has a sixth sense.

  When a platypus dives underwater, it closes its eyes, nostrils, and ears, and turns on its electro-sense. Sixty thousand receptors in the platypus's bill pinpoint minute electrical signals given off by prey—crayfish, mollusks, tadpoles, and aquatic insect larvae. Using this ability, a platypus spends up to thirteen hours a day foraging, diving as often as eighty times an hour, and capturing and eating half its own weight every single day.

  Alexis bent down and put some mud from the Meander's bank in a plastic bag. Then the three of us walked out onto a dock. Another platypus surfaced near a lily pad, sending off ripples that shimmered in the last purplish light of the sunset. Alexis took out his digital camera and attempted to take some photographs, but the platypus kept most of its body underwater. We tried to imagine the scene beneath the surface. With its webbed feet and paddle tail, the platypus must have looked marvelous scooting through the Meander, diving down, probing the dark water for its dinner.

  We went back to the hotel and Alexis put a big Y for yes on the platypus page of his field guide to Tasmanian mammals. Then he held up his bag of river mud, and began extolling the virtues of Tasmania's wildlife.

  “This is my idea,” he said. “The wildlife of this island, as diverse as it is, is almost polite. The mainland has the vulgar, harsh, dangerous wildlife. Everything here is nice and furry, not too camouflaged. It reminds me of Beatrix Potter. It has a very Victorian persona, except every-thing's upside down. One of their major crops is opium poppies. Things just don't quite fit. The giant lobster, the Tasmanian devil, the burrowing crayfish. What the hell is that? The platypus? Come on. The fauna is surrealistic. It's almost inspiring enough to make me an artist.”

  That was an interesting thought, considering he was the expedition artist, and so far, we had noticed, inspiration had yet to strike—though he did have a growing collection of materials for making pigment, including wombat scat, two types of river mud, ocher, charcoal, and various types of dirt.

  “So are you going to draw something with that river mud?” we asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, lying down on his sagging bed. “But not tonight. I'm off duty.”

  23. QUOLLING ABOUT

  The next morning we were waiting outside the Deloraine hotel in the Pajero. Alexis was still inside, placing a phone call to Dorothy back in New York. In our peripheral vision, we saw a middle-aged man in green camouflage fatigues and orange wraparound sunglasses wan dering up Deloraine's main street. We didn't pay too much attention until he pressed his nose against the driver's side window.

  “Uh, yes?” We reluctantly rolled down the window.

  “You're waiting for Andrew?” He nodded in a military sort of way.

  “Yes …” We were confused. Had the Trowunna Wildlife Park sent someone over to collect us? Darlene had said she wouldn't let us leave the island without speaking to Androo. How had they known where we were staying?

  “So,” he said. “We'll all be going over to Jackie's Marsh. Which vehicle should we take?”

  This was beginning to feel like a carjacking. We eyed the guy nervously. Was it normal in Deloraine to wear full-body camouflage? “Uh … who's Jackie?”

  Suddenly, our interrogator looked at us warily. “Are you waiting for Andrew Ricketts?” he said sharply.

  Were we? What was Androo's last name? Panicking, we strained to remember …Kelly. That's it, like the outlaw. We're going to see Androo Kelly. And we weren't waiting for him. We were driving over to see him.

  “So what are you here for?” he asked as Alexis emerged from the hotel.

  We were so relieved to see Alexis—and to have some backup if neces-sary—that we almost shouted, “Quolls! We're going to see some quolls.”

  “Ahh,” he said mysteriously. “Dasyurus maculatus.” Then he strolled off down the street.

  We told Alexis about the strange grilling. “What do you think his story was? Why did he know the quoll's scientific name?”

  Alexis thought about it for a minute. “I think he's Green,” he said finally, “unless there's a whole new level of redneck.”

  Half an hour later, we were back at Trowunna and walking through a mob of free-range marsupials, including a large forester kangaroo that blocked our path in front of the zoo's café. We gave it a wide berth.

  We found Androo Kelly mucking out an empty wombat enclosure. “Yeah, Darlene said you might be coming,” he said. “It's a bad day. Half my staff is off for this weekend. If you don't mind following me around when I'm doing my chores, we can talk.” He bent down to pick up a chunk of wombat scat with his gloved hand.

  “Rulla, can you get me a bucket?” A young boy with blond hair emerged with a water pail. “This is Rulla, my son. He's helping me out today.”

  Androo looked to be in his mid-forties. He was rail-thin, with dark hair, a scrappy beard, and intense gray eyes. In addition to rubber gloves, he wore a long-sleeved T-shirt that pictured Tasmanian devils in three different poses. Also, he was on crutches. His left ankle and foot were encased in a fiberglass cast.

  “What happened to your leg?” Alexis asked.

  “Oh, I took a bad step and landed on a rock. Rushing around as usual.”

  Trowunna was a private wildlife park, and it operated on donation
s, a handful of small grants, and a backbreaking amount of hard work. Although it looked like a folksy petting zoo, appearances could be deceiving. Androo was the world's top expert in the breeding of Tasmanian devils and quolls. “Trowunna is an anomaly,” he said. “This facility is the only private operation that's a member of the zoo industry proper as far as captive breeding goes. But what makes it important is that it's in situ, in Tasmania.”

  Androo hobbled out of the wombat enclosure and hopped toward a small building. The crutches and broken ankle didn't seem to slow him down much. “Rulla, come on, we're going to the kitchen.”

  Inside, a worker was grating apples and adding them to growing mounds of shredded roughage. “Peter is preparing food for wombats and pademelons. We give them twenty-seven to twenty-nine different fruits and vegetables. This gives them a variety of tastes. So when they go back to the wild, they'll feed on different food sources. It's much better than a mono-diet.”

  “What do you feed the carnivores?”

  “I usually feed the quolls a mixture of chicken, rabbit, and wallaby. The devils get whole or partial carcasses.”

  Androo crutched into an outdoor Tasmanian devil exhibit. “There are two little devils in here. One got attacked by a dog. The other had denned under a house and the owners trapped it and brought it here.” The devils were young and agile, climbing onto a propped-up log. The toes peeping out of Androo's cast looked like they might make a tasty meal for a young devil. But Androo seemed oblivious as he shunted the devils aside to muck out their pen.

  “There's a rural myth that devils are dangerous,” Androo said, observing our wondering look. “Most devils here at Trowunna will let me pick them up, even while they're eating. The devil by nature is a timid animal. They have a very sophisticated confrontation avoidance system. They are aggressive around carcasses, and there are some devils you can't pick up. They'll bite you and go, Rah, rah, bug off, you.”