Lost Worlds

by David Yeadon

  “That little whippersnapper’ll stay there till it’s five months old. Watch her when she feeds it.”

  The mother carefully tore off pieces of the grilled fish, chewed them up with the discerning air of a professional food taster, and then fed morsels to her baby, who winked at us every time it got a mouthful.

  “Cute little buggers. Call ’em brush-tailed possums. Used to be real popular for fur. Still are, even though they’re protecting ’em now.”

  The fish vanished fast. I hoped Bob didn’t plan to feed her the last piece. I needed sustenance for my hike.

  “Okay, darlin’—bloody cheeky sheila—that’s it. Come back tomorrow for scraps.”

  The possum seemed to understand. She nodded, gave what looked like a gentle curtsy, then hopped off into the woody thicket near the outhouse toilet. Bob closed the door quietly and smiled. “Sorry ’bout your fish.”

  “Forget it. It was worth it. She was beautiful.”

  “Yeah. Real beaut.” For such a tall backwoodsman, Bob’s face looked almost childlike as he returned, grinning, to the fire.

  “I’m glad it wasn’t a Tasmanian tiger,” I said.

  “Oh—y’know about those? The thylacine—that’s their right name. Big weird things—like a huge dog, with tiger stripes all down their backs. Been doing some reading?”

  “I saw some articles about them. Didn’t sound like the kind of creature I’d like to meet alone on a dark night.”

  “Yeah—they were pretty fierce. My dad killed one once—when I was a lad—way up in the northeast. Not too many around now. M’be none. They said one was shot at Sandy Cape in ’61. ’Course, y’always get people claimin’ to see ’em. M’be they’re the same oddballs as claim to get kidnapped by Martians!”

  His great boom of laughter rocked the hut again.

  “You think they’re extinct?”

  He stopped laughing. The light outside was sliding into evening gloom; an eerie yellow-purple glow sheened the cobweb-encrusted windows.

  “Y’know, Dave, Tasmania’s a funny place. North islanders laugh at it ’cause it’s so small. But when you live here it don’t seem that small. There’s so many places where no one’s really been. Like where we are. We get the hikers and that, but they stick to the paths—if they didn’t they wouldn’t last ten minutes in some of these bogs. So most of this area—this South-West—well, no one’s really ever seen it. Could be all kinds things out there…. Sometimes, well—sometimes…”

  He was searching for the right words.

  “…I dunno. Sometimes you see odd things. Just for a few seconds or so…y’know…things that don’t make any sense.”

  “Like what?”

  He smiled a half smile. “Well—no matter….”

  “C’mon, Bob. Don’t do that. Tell me.”

  He studied my eyes to see if I was likely to laugh at him.

  “Well…I haven’t told this to many folks….”

  I decided to say nothing and wait until he was ready.

  “Okay. No worries. If you laugh I’ll belt you one, but I’ve seen some weird things in my time—real odd—but the strangest time was just a few weeks back when I was down at the beach, the place where I take the campers—if you hang around another day I’ll show you there.”

  “Great. I’d like that.”

  “Well, anyway, like I said, it was a few weeks back and I was down there by myself just checkin’ on things. It was ’bout this time. Evening. Bit cloudy like tonight. Not much light. And I was sittin’ on the beach, doin’ nothin’, just sitting and looking…Mount Rugby was up there, right across the water, all purple and red on top…beaut…like there was a light inside it…. So—I was sitting, doing nothing. No worries. Then there was this noise. Further up the beach a ways. Up where it narrows and the pines comes real close to the water. Now, you get kangas and your possums and all that ’round here. Quite a few, if you know where to look. But this was something I’d never seen before. I mean, Dave—it was big. Bloody big. Bigger than anything I’ve spotted anywhere on Tassie.”

  “How big? Like a cow—a gorilla?”

  “Never seen a gorilla. M’be big as a big steer calf. It was hard to tell. But it had a low back end—high up front.”

  “Aren’t the Tasmanian tigers like that? Bit like a lynx or a hyena? Low in the back?”

  “Yeah, bit like that. Only this was lower. Maybe it was hurt. I dunno. It seemed to drag its back end.”

  “It wasn’t a forester kangaroo? I read they grow pretty big in Tasmania.”

  “No—not a forester. I’ve seen plenty of them up in the midlands. No—this was something I’d never seen before.”

  “What was it doing?”

  “Moving down the beach to the water. Slowly like. Maybe for a drink, I dunno. It was very wary. Kept moving back and forward. Maybe it was pickin’ up my scent. There was a bit of breeze. Nothin’ much. But enough.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well—it turned my way and looked down where I was. And…” He paused. The memory was obviously very powerful. He even looked uneasy. “Well, I’ll tell you, Dave, I’ve never seen a head—a face—like that. Body was a bit vague in the light, but that face…I mean, maybe it was a freak of some kind—a badly hurt kanga, who knows, maybe even a Tassie tiger. Its jaw seemed to hang loose. Huge teeth. Massive bloody eyes. I mean…it was a bloody monster. Head wasn’t symmetrical. Sort of lopsided. But I’ll tell you. It scared the crap out of me. Really did. I’ve been a bushman on and off since as long as I can remember and I don’t get scared easy—but this bloody thing…”

  I waited.

  “Well, it must have got wind of me. It stopped dead—right there in the sand by the rocks—then it turned and sort of pulled itself back into the trees. Stopped once and looked at me again. I mean, David, it was really the worst-lookin’ thing I’ve ever seen. Evil. It looked pure evil. I was beginning to think where I’d run if it came at me…but it didn’t. Seemed to want to growl or cry or something—opened its mouth real wide…jeez, those teeth…but no sound came out….”

  I wondered if he was putting me on, inventing tall bushman tales. The embers in the fire rose in a flurry of sparks and sprayed Bob’s face with scarlet light. The lines in his forehead and cheeks had deep shadows and there was no sign of laughter in them.

  “Then it just disappeared. No noise. No nothing. I mean, a thing that size makes some noise, right? Cracking twigs. Whatever. But there was no sound…nothing.”

  It was very quiet in the hut. The last of the evening light had gone from the window. A shiver scurried down my spine and across my buttocks.

  “Do you think it was a Tasmanian tiger? Maybe wounded or something?”

  “Honest, Dave, I’ve no idea what it was. If it was a tiger it was the most disfigured one that I’ve ever heard of. I know they’re strange-looking buggers—they’ve got heads a bit like wolves, fifteen or so stripes across their back and a rear end, with kangaroo-type legs, only upright, and a long rigid tail, bit like a real tiger. They’re real vicious too—blood feeders. Only eat fresh meat, and from what they say they weren’t too fussy ’bout whose meat.”

  “But they’re extinct now, right?”

  “That’s what they say, Dave. But…in places like this…well, you never know. Might be other things too. Things no one’s ever seen. It’s not impossible….”

  I pulled closer to the fire, wondering what creatures, other than that “beaut” of a possum we’d fed, I might find on this walk through one of the least-explored parts of the world. I had to ask him.

  “So—anything else you should warn me about before I set off?”

  Bob laughed. Some of his bushman bravado returned. He sat up straight, poked the fire, and nonchalantly offered: “Well—they told you about the leeches, right?”

  “Leeches! What leeches?”

  “Oh, they didn’t. Well—you didn’t do enough reading, Dave—wait till you get to the Ironbounds. There’s rain forest over there. That
’s where you’ll find ’em. But you got gaiters and all that stuff, right?”

  “Yes, I’ve got gaiters. But I hate leeches! Last time I got them was in Iran a few years back, when I was working on another book. I can still feel them. Worse, I can still see them. Inflating themselves like little black balloons. Filling up with my blood.”

  “Well,” said Bob, knowing he’d gotten my attention. “Let’s see what else…oh—there’s the devil—Tasmanian devil. You know about that little critter?”

  “A bit. Not much. I thought they were mainly in zoos now.”

  “Lord—no. No, no! All over the damn place. Not too many down this end though. More in the west—Cradle Lake, Overland Track—’round there. But I’ve seen a few. Bad-tempered little blighters. Though if you get ’em young and tame ’em they can be quite normal. Friendly—but I still wouldn’t trust a bugger with teeth like that. And a stinker—wow, what a stink it puts out! Takes a week to get rid of it. And as black as night. ’Bout as big as a rabbit—big bare ears, long whiskers. Y’should see it eat a fowl—or a possum. Eats every blinkin’ scrap—skin, bones, fur, feathers. The lot. Growls and snarls like a demon, spits and barks—and fights like a pit bull….when they get mad you’ll know about it.”

  “Great. Nice place I’ve come to.”

  “It’s okay, Dave. Doubt if you’ll see one way down here. Maybe hear one once in a while. You’ll be okay. You’ll get mainly possums, wallabies, and those small scrub wallabies—pademelons—lizards, quoils, that kind of thing. Maybe a spotted cat—bit like a weasel or a tiger cat—they’re a bit devilish in spirit. Y’might see a platypus or two in the streams. Maybe a wombat—now, there’s a nice cuddly little critter. Very shy.”

  “And leeches.”

  “Oh, yeah—leeches. Definitely leeches, Dave.”

  Bang!

  Another knock on the door. This lost world was turning out to be a far busier place than I’d envisaged. Maybe the possum was back for more fish. Well—tough. I’d finished it off long ago.

  Bob rose, stretched, and smiled. “Now, here’s a guy that’ll tell you ’bout the nicer things down here.”

  He pulled open the door to reveal a small, thin man with an enormous black beard and mustache, circular John Lennon spectacles, and a mop of unruly black hair.

  “Steve—c’mon in. You’re just in time, boyo. I was telling Dave here about our wildlife and he thinks he’ll be eaten alive soon as he sets off on the track.”

  “Which track?”

  “South Coast Track.”

  “Poor bugger.”

  “Yeah—that’s what I told him,” said Bob.

  “You by yourself?” asked Steve, blinking ferociously behind his thick glasses. He reminded me of a smaller version of Steven Spielberg.

  “Hi, Steve,” I said. “Yes, I’m by myself.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t seem to be able to focus on my face. Either that or he was nervous.

  “Been tellin’ Dave ’bout the leeches ’round Ironbound.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Steve.

  “Maybe a devil or two. Wadda you think?”

  “Unlikely, I think.”

  “Yeah, so do I,” said Bob.

  “Spiders, though,” said Steve quietly.

  “Oh, God! I forgot those!” said Bob, his face cracking into a thousand laugh lines. “By God—I forgot the bloody spiders. Sit down, Steve. Tell him about the spiders.”

  Steve joined us by the fire, which now roared with new vigor as Bob piled on fresh logs.

  I decided to bluff this one out. Bob was obviously enjoying himself far too much at my expense.

  “So, Steve,” I said. “Tell me about the spiders.”

  “Sure you want to know?” He smiled for the first time. His walrus mustache shook with repressed chuckles.

  “Sure, I’ve seen quite a few supposedly deadly spiders around the world. Most of them are not half as bad as their reputations.”

  “That’s very true.” Steve smiled. “Same here.”

  “Good. Well, that’s fine.”

  “Except for the wolf spider—their venom can give you a bit of an ache.”

  “Great—I’ll remember that.”

  “And the black house spider, though you won’t find those here.”

  “Fine.”

  “And the red-back. That was a killer once, but now there’s an antivenin. No one’s died since the sixties.”

  “Well, great. That’s it?”

  “Well, no. They haven’t found an antivenin for the funnel-web yet.”

  “What’s a funnel-web?”

  “Nasty bugger. Lives down in a burrow which it lines with silky thread and opens it up like a funnel with trip lines that extend out from the tube. The male venom is real potent.”

  “How potent?”

  “You die,” said Steve with a serious professorial look on his face.

  “Die?”

  “Sure.”

  “Am I likely to find any down here?”

  “Well—the worst ones are up around Sydney. They build their funnels near drains, in wood piles, gardens—cool, shady places.”

  “Sydney’s a hell of a long way from here.”

  “Right.”

  “So, I’m okay?”

  “Oh, I’d think so…just be careful.”

  “You mean I might find some?”

  “Unlikely. Don’t you think so, Bob?”

  “Yeah, I’d think so,” said Bob. “Don’t remember seeing one ’round here…”

  “Good,” I said.

  “…recently,” said Bob, and burst out laughing again.

  “The hell with you two!” But I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re not going to put me off this hike.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Bob.

  “’Course not,” agreed Steve.

  “Good. So—no more spider crap. Bob says you can tell me about some of the ‘nicer’ things down here.”

  “Oh, he did.”

  “Like your birds,” prodded Bob. “Steve’s quite a famous person down here. He’s helping reintroduce the orange-bellied parrot—it’s almost extinct, but who knows, this could be where it makes a comeback.”

  “That right, Steve?” I asked.

  “Well, forget the famous bit. I’m just an assistant—a volunteer. But that’s what we’re doing. This is their only breeding ground and we’re trying to get them reestablished. It’s early days yet. I’ll be down here another few months helping them get adjusted.”

  “I’ve read quite a bit on the ‘greening’ of Tasmania since I arrived. In fact the night I came into Hobart the Green party thought they’d got the government by the short ’n’ hairies. Some scandal about logging rights?”

  “Oh, God,” said Steve with a sigh. “That’s been a problem here for decades. Not enough controls. We’ve lost tens of thousands of hectares to those logging operations—you’ll see what they’ve done when you get to the end of the South Coast Track. Like night and day. Soon as you cross the World Heritage boundary there’s whole stretches of foothills where the forest has been clear-felled. Nothing left.”

  For the first time I sensed vigor and anger in Steve’s mellow manner.

  “Is it changing? Is the government getting into selective felling?”

  “All bloody nonsense, that ‘selective felling.’ All euphemisms and rhetoric—like ‘managed forests,’ ‘replanting schemes’—honestly, we’ve heard all the cowclap for decades. Now we’re saying—stop everything. No more felling. Tasmania’s a small place and we need all the forest we can keep. There’s not that much left. Less than a tenth of what we once had. Wildlife is being wiped out, the rain forest is dying, we’re getting erosion, the bloody dams are filling up with runoff soil. Half of them will be useless by the end of the century. They’re so dumb in Hobart! Bloody ‘bludgers’” (a word I was to hear often in Tasmania, apparently referring to those nefarious members of society who live off the sweat of other people’s brows).

  Bob nodded a
nd chuckled, “He’s right, David. Few years back the Greens were laughed off as a bunch of pot-heads and leftover hippies. But now they’ve got some clout—and things are happening…. Tasmania could become the place to make a stand…set an example.”

  Our conversation rolled on into the night as the fire glowed and crackled. With people like Bob and Steve it seemed Tasmania might have a chance. I finally curled up on one of the bunk-bed platforms and, with the exception of a series of wall-shaking snore barrages from Bob, slept a quiet and dreamless sleep.

  The smell of coffee and bacon awoke me.

  “God—you sleep deep,” said Bob, bringing a chipped enamel mug steaming with a thick black brew. “You’ll likely need a few of these to get you going.”

  Getting going is not one of my God-given talents. I mumbled thanks and sipped the scalding coffee.

  “Listen, Dave, I was thinking. You gonna leave today or d’you wanna spend a bit more time here?”

  Thinking in the early morning is another skill I haven’t yet mastered.

  “Not sure yet. Why?”

  “Well—I could take you out to the beach. Show you a bit of Bathurst Harbor. Then there’s the Willsons. You wanna go over and visit?”

  “Sounds fine.” I wasn’t really ready for the lonely hike. I was enjoying Bob’s company and the prospect of six, maybe more days out on that trail (leeches, Tasmanian tigers, funnel-web spiders, et al.) didn’t appeal yet. And anyway it was all mist and drizzle outside. Not an auspicious time to begin a big trek.

  Bob’s bacon and fried-bread sandwiches were greasy and delicious. I’d catch up on my muesli, bran, and fruit later, in less challenging climes. Cholesterol and caffeine were fine for the moment.

  When we emerged from the hut the mists were clearing and there was warmth in the early sun.

  “She’ll be a good un’,” mumbled Bob as we headed past Deny’s house to the boat jetty on the creek. I found it hard to share his confidence. From what I’d heard about the fickle moods and tantrums of the climate down here, such pronouncements seemed dangerous invitations to providence. But then again, he was the bushman. I was merely passing through.