Fortune's Son

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Saturday afternoon, the last day of winter. The prisoners were weeding a vegetable plot under the close supervision of Bob, a successful market gardener in a previous incarnation.

  Dick Collins called Luke over. ‘We’ve hit the jackpot, son,’ he said. ‘There’s a dog fight in town. Nothing better than a good dog fight. Harness Blossom and keep your wits about you. You’re in for a real treat.’

  The day had been cold and wet, but the clouds parted as they began their drive. Luke enjoyed the sunshine on his back and the smell of warm, damp earth. All around he saw signs of returning spring. Welcome swallows gathered mud for their nests from puddles along the rutted track. Pairs of black-faced cuckoo-shrikes (known as summer birds because their annual arrival heralded the end of winter) flitted in the branches of the same blue gums they nested in last year. Luke doffed his cap to them. Brave birds. Each year they dared the dangerous flight over Bass Strait from mainland Australia to raise their broods in Tasmania. He could use some of their courage. Imagined making that journey in reverse, flying to the mainland where no one would know him.

  Flowers budded on leatherwood and waratah. Tiny, golden pompoms of wattle blossom lent a sun-kissed appearance to the forest, even when high clouds strayed across the face of the sun. Beetles and butterflies, bees and moths emerged into their first and last spring.

  The old bay mare plodded along the bumpy road, unmoved by Collins’ cursing or the half-hearted bite of Luke’s whip on her flanks. After half an hour they reached the outskirts of Hills End. Mr Collins directed Luke down a washed-away track flanking the township on its northern perimeter.

  Soon they reached a large, ramshackle building, framed by rough bush timber and clad with six-foot strips of stringybark. The low ceiling consisted of the same material. A ragged stone chimney discharged a thin stream of smoke from the roof. Other men were also arriving: on horseback, in carts and on foot. A series of muffled barks and howls could be heard from the barn.

  Luke climbed down from the cart, tied Blossom to a rail and followed Collins inside. He’d never been to a dog fight. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. The only light came from four poky, high-set windows, one on each wall. Smoke filled the air. A long trestle served as both a bar and a betting table. The place stank of blood and sweat.

  At the centre of the room, two men stood in a shallow pit of filthy sawdust. Each held a dog. One looked like a dingo, with a mangy, yellow coat and half-starved frame. It cowered from its owner, lips drawn back in a snarl. The other was a young black kangaroo-dog, much larger than the dingo, straining excitedly against his chain.

  A man at the bookie’s end of the bar shouted for quiet, and the rabble crowded round the pit. Both men unleashed their dogs and stepped back. It was over before it began. Though taller and heavier than his opponent, the black dog was sorely disadvantaged by youth and inexperience. As he rushed in on his foe, the dingo delivered a savage bite with lightning speed. The young dog fell stricken to the floor with a gaping wound low on his flank. The dingo didn’t press his attack, but shrank back to watch.

  The wounded dog struggled to his feet and stood panting, dazed and bleeding. Stumbling forward a few paces, he lay down, head on paws, as shock set in. A wide, dark stain spread on the ground beneath him. He whimpered a little. A disgruntled punter dealt the mortally wounded animal a kick to the head. Twitching violently, the dog rolled onto his side, bared his teeth one last time and lay still. His owner unceremoniously dragged him away through the jeering crowd.

  Luke felt a burning in his throat. Years of incarceration had accustomed him to human cruelty, but he’d lost nothing of the respect and love for animals that he’d known as a boy. If anything, his admiration for them had increased in inverse proportion to his growing contempt for humanity. He shut his eyes tight and cursed beneath his breath. Old memories would not help him now.

  Collins, whisky in hand and already half-inebriated, motioned Luke to join him at the betting table. Luke assisted the overseer by outlining to him the odds available on upcoming fights and then placed his bets for him, ensuring he wasn’t cheated in the process. Collins settled happily in for an afternoon of drinking and sport, insisting that Luke remain by his side.

  The next bout proved equally sickening. Two experienced and well-matched dogs fought for ten minutes before one succumbed to pain, blood loss and exhaustion, allowing its opponent to seize a death grip on its throat. Even the winning animal, Luke saw, would likely die from its injuries. He couldn’t stand it. Every part of him wanted to turn, to walk out the door and away from the smell and the smoke and the blood. To take his chances out in the wild. To not be part of this world.

  The next fight was ready to begin. A man dragged a shaggy, black dog forward on a rusty chain – the biggest dog Luke had ever seen. He looked like a bear. If I’m ever lucky enough to own such a dog, he thought, that’s what I’ll call him – Bear. There was no snarling from the animal, no impatient bloodlust. He seemed instead confused and scared. When unleashed, he did not launch himself at the heavily built brindle mastiff he was pitted against. Instead, he launched himself at the crowd in a frantic effort to escape. It took a whiplash to his muzzle before he could be contained. Although obviously no fighter, his remarkable size engendered a flurry of bets.

  When the mastiff charged, the bear dog seemed taken by surprise and suffered a bite to his shoulder. Luke felt rage rise within him as he watched the magnificent dog being forced to fight. Natural agility kept him safe for a few minutes; he turned and twisted to avoid the mastiff’s tearing fangs. Luke could stand no more. His muscles tensed as he prepared to leap forward and try to stop the fight. A desperate howl of pain came from the ring. Luke stiffened, certain the black dog must be down. He peered around a fat man with a whip who’d moved in front of him. But as he caught a glimpse of the ring, and the hooting and hollering grew louder, he saw it was the brindle dog in trouble with the bear dog’s teeth at his throat.

  The mastiff lay still, and its owner stepped forward. Bear sprang to face him, and the crowd melted back. Seizing his chance, the dog leapt from the ring. None were game to block his path. He burst through the door and fled towards the trees with a mob of men at his heels. Luke was one of them, silently thanking the dog for giving him not just the opportunity but also the courage to run.

  The rest of the men stopped at the tree line. Some useless calling, then they drifted back to the shed. Some raised rifles, shooting after the fleeing dog, but he was out of range. Not so Luke. A bullet whizzed past him. The next winged his shoulder. He watched the bright blood stain his shirt as he ran, but nothing could stem his elation. Luke vanished into the gully, ignoring the pain of his wound, fleeing with as much energy and determination as the great dog. He needed to put a great deal of distance between himself and town before Collins missed him.

  CHAPTER 5

  Coorinna followed the stream down the mountain, three half-grown cubs by her side. Upon first glance in the failing light, she might have been mistaken for a wolf. But Coorinna was a native tiger, the world’s largest marsupial carnivore. Once upon a time, her kind had roamed without fear, from mountains to ocean in freedom and safety. But British settlement had long since driven them from the fertile open plains of their old hunting grounds. In the dense forest, prey was scarce and hard to catch. Her striped flanks were hollow from hunger, so tonight she risked hunting the lower pastures.

  Coorinna stopped suddenly, forefoot raised. A dog lay in the ferny hollow ahead, blocking their path. She understood all too well the danger he posed. Her mate had been killed by shepherd dogs. Since then she’d raised her cubs alone, high on the range where man seldom ventured.

  She waited a long time before leading her young in a wary arc around the sleeping dog and continuing on her way.

  Bear opened his eyes. In the gloom, four shadows slipped wraith-like through the trees. He sniffed the air. Not people, not dogs; an unfamiliar scent. He licked his sore shoulder, and padde
d to the mossy stream for a drink, snapping in vain at a darting minnow. For weeks he’d had nothing but a few scraps of rancid offal, and his hunger raged. Bear whined, then wagged his tail and followed the strange band of animals back down the mountain.

  For more than an hour he trailed them. Timbered ridges gave way to patches of grassland. His nerve almost failed him when the tigers passed a disused shepherd’s hut; men could be dangerous, he knew that now.

  A full moon rose behind the hills, sharpening the shadows. The tigers stopped in a pandanus thicket on the rim of a grassy clearing. Bear crouched low. He smelled sheep. Moonlight showed them grazing with lambs in the open. One ewe with a newborn was foraging away from the flock, straying close to the waiting tigers. Bear did not regard the sheep as food and harboured no desire to kill them. In other circumstances he might have felt compelled to protect them. Instead he watched while Coorinna edged downwind, closer and closer to her target.

  Abruptly Coorinna exploded from the scrub, and the ewe was down before she knew what hit her. The cubs went after the lamb. It ran for a few yards, then doubled back, vainly seeking its mother’s protection. But she was already dead. Coorinna released her grip on the ewe’s throat and lay down, breathing hard. The hunt had already exhausted her. She watched her cubs bound after the lamb. This would be their first kill.

  The tigers settled down to feed. They’d not eaten for many nights. In Coorinna’s emaciated state she wasn’t fast enough to catch the swift mountain wallabies and she lacked the strength to kill kangaroos and wombats. Until now her cubs had been too young to be useful. The discovery of this lambing flock grazing unprotected was the answer to her prayers.

  Bear licked his lips and crept forward, smelling warm meat. He was downwind, and so intent were the tigers on their meal that they didn’t notice the dog until he was almost upon them. Coorinna whirled to face him with bared fangs, thrashing her powerful tail to-and-fro like an angry cat.

  Bear kept coming, showing neither aggression nor hesitation. Coorinna backed off, stiff-legged. Bear fell on the ewe carcass, gorging himself, while the cubs fed on the lamb. Coorinna stood guard in front of them.

  When Bear had eaten his fill, he walked to the edge of the clearing and lay down. Coorinna returned to feed at the sheep carcass, occasionally curling her lip and hissing at the watching dog. The sated cubs took to pouncing at each other, occasionally barrelling into Coorinna as she fed, earning sharp nips for their trouble. One started off in Bear’s direction, but was warned back by its mother’s threatening growl.

  The bones were nearly stripped bare when Coorinna led her cubs back up the mountain trail. With a wave of his tail, Bear rose and trotted after them. A chorus of shrieks and screams rose from the surrounding bush, and a dozen pairs of intense yellow eyes followed him. The devils had been there all along, hidden in the shadows, waiting for the tigers to abandon the kill. They descended on the carcasses, screeching and snarling in competition for prime spot. Bear broke into a run as the bloodcurdling cries grew louder. Compared to whatever lay behind him, the little tiger family seemed almost like familiar friends.

  CHAPTER 6

  Luke trailed Bear ever higher into the mountains. Lessons in bushcraft came flooding back, learned as a boy at Daniel’s side.

  ‘The earth is a manuscript rewritten each day,’ his teacher had told him. ‘As we go about our business, we leave a ripple that betrays our passing. Footprints are a part of this telltale ripple. Another is the warning cry of the currawong as we walk too close to his nest, the honeysuckle stem broken as we pass, the carelessly discarded core of our apple. Animals are no different. Tracking them is like reading. First we painstakingly learn the simplest letters. They join into words, combine into phrases and so we can read the book of the animal’s life.’

  Daniel always impressed upon Luke the sacred responsibility this information bore with it. ‘Such skills unlock secrets. Treasure this knowledge and use it wisely. Disturbing wildlife can cause much harm, leading them to desert their young or abandon feeding grounds or flee into danger. Remember, you are a guest in their home – always show respect.’

  Luke didn’t find it difficult to follow Bear’s frantic flight through the forest to freedom. Why he chose to follow the dog was not so clear, but it seemed as good a plan as any. His escape left him more conscious than ever of his own cowardice. He couldn’t avoid it. A voice screamed in his head to return before it was too late, though logic told him it was already too late – the die already cast. His penalty would be severe, whether he surrendered now or was taken against his will. Only this thought prevented him from returning to camp, from throwing himself at the superintendent’s mercy, from begging forgiveness and accepting whatever beating or punishment came his way.

  It seemed to Luke that fear now entirely ruled him. How had he become so spineless? He thought back to his childhood in Hobart – so innocent and cocky then, full of brash charm, with an eye for the girls and never shy of a fight. His mother and sister, how they adored him, unable to refuse him anything once he trained his smiling brown eyes on them . . . Afternoons in his Uncle Hiram’s blacksmith shop.

  ‘He’ll get on, that lad, there’s no doubting it,’ his father would announce to nobody in particular as Luke brought down hammer on anvil to fashion a red-hot piece of steel into a horseshoe or engaged a customer with a winning grin. His uncle agreed. Everyone agreed. How wrong they’d been.

  The toe ripped off his boot on some rough ground. He kicked at the rocks again and again until his toes bled, filled with contempt for himself. Yet part of him acknowledged that he had finally escaped. For years he’d planned and plotted and schemed and dreamed of this, and doing it nourished a kernel of pride.

  Luke ripped a strip from his shirt, tied his boot together as best he could, and forged on. Following the dog gave him a purpose, pointless as that purpose was. Focusing on tracking also distracted him from the seriousness of his predicament. How grateful he was for the bushcraft Daniel had taught him. It could spell the difference between life and death in the days ahead.

  Hour after hour, Luke climbed into the rugged uplands. Sometimes he glanced back, but saw no sign of pursuit. Open bush gave way to taller forests of eucalypt, southern myrtle and blackwood. Thick scrub and tangled logs slowed his progress, but also made it easier to track the big dog. His blundering through the undergrowth left an obvious trail.

  At last Luke emerged from a timbered ridge onto an open button-grass plain, cradled between craggy cliffs. A shadow rippling along the ground made him look up. Overhead soared two dark shapes, gliding in lazy, dignified circles across the vivid expanse of blue. He watched the eagles enviously, so far removed from the wretchedness of his own earth-bound existence.

  The emerald carpet of cushion plants provided a delightful contrast from the grey-green forest, and soft, spongy comfort for Luke’s aching feet. But now it proved much harder to follow Bear’s tracks.

  Luke recalled his teacher’s words. ‘The clues to the next track are in the present one.’

  Although always kind, Daniel was an exacting taskmaster. When Luke found it difficult to age a trail, his teacher had taken him into Coomalong’s garden and cleared a level patch of soil, removing twigs and pebbles and roughly smoothing it with the side of his hand. He used a stick to make five impressions in the soil, each roughly half an inch deep – a paw print.

  ‘Memorise this mark. Also the prevailing wind, time of day, position of the sun.’

  Six hours later, before Luke normally went home for the day, his teacher again summoned him into the garden to examine the print. Although it didn’t look any different, Luke studied it carefully and wrote down the weather conditions.

  Daniel gave him a satisfied smile. ‘I’ve asked your father if you may stay with us at Coomalong this week. Would you like that? Good.’

  The housekeeper showed him inside to a guest bedroom. There he discovered his own little trunk, lovingly packed by his mother, sitting in the middle of a
soft featherbed.

  Luke spent the evening wolfing down tender corned beef and cabbage dumplings, followed by mounds of pudding and clotted cream. After dinner Daniel challenged him and Belle to poker, a game they all took seriously in spite of playing for peanuts. When his wife complained about the children staying up late at such a questionable game, Daniel said he was teaching the mathematics of chance. Eventually Mrs Campbell wrested them away for a supper of honey sandwiches and warm milk. Luke went to his room, tired but happy, and sank into his soft bed.

  Just as he was drifting off to sleep, his teacher roused him. Mr Campbell was carrying a notebook and oil lamp. ‘Get dressed, my boy. Hurry up.’

  Luke pulled on his trousers and jacket. In the excitement of being invited to stay, he’d forgotten to ask the reason for his visit. He was about to find out.

  They trooped to the back garden. Light drizzle fell on the ground where the mock paw print lay. Daniel lowered the lamp so Luke could see. It looked a little different now: shallower, less distinct. He examined it for a while, making sketches, taking notes.

  ‘Good, good,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ll see you again at four o’clock this morning. You’ll repeat the process every six hours for the next week, observing how the track deteriorates with time. That is how you learn to age a trail.’

  He’d certainly learned from one of the best.

  Luke scouted ahead and picked up Bear’s tracks in a boggy patch beside a stream. He stopped to drink, cupping the clear, sweet water in his hands, gulping down long draughts.

  Late afternoon melded into dusk. Shadows gathered, casting the jagged face of the range into stark relief. An icy wind chased after the departing sun, piercing Luke’s ragged clothes. He shivered with weariness and cold, and the bullet wound to his shoulder throbbed painfully. Still, he was loath to abandon Bear’s trail.