Red Fox

by Fanning, Lara

  Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the fabric of the shirt comes loose as I pull it. And bit-by-bit, it reveals an angry red, golf ball sized dent that now seeps with fresh blood. I cover my mouth to stop my moan of disgust, but the loud exhale of air that spouts from my nostrils along with a whimpering sound is too audible and obviously a bad sign. Whil’s shoulders tense.

  “Freya, tell me what it looks like,” he says in a low voice.

  “Um… Well, it’s pretty big.”

  “How big and how deep?”

  “It’s about half the size of my fist, but probably only half a centimetre deep. Can’t you feel it?”

  “I can only feel pain. A lot of it all over my head, and I can hear my heart thumping in my ears.”

  Tell your heart to stop pumping the blood out of your head, I think.

  “It’s alright. It isn’t exactly… attractive, but it doesn’t look infected,” I tell him.

  I’m telling the truth. It doesn’t look infected. Whatever the yellowish coloured moisture on the bandage was earlier must have been something other than puss. The wound is fresh and still bloody but it looks relatively clean. The blood flow must have cleared the dirt from it. The falling rock managed to rip out a patch of hair from his head too. Absent-mindedly, I stroke the hair around the wound, delaying any further work I’ll have to do.

  “It wouldn’t be infected yet. Too early,” Whil says. “It takes a few days for infection to set in.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask, trying to distract him as I pour the Iodine-water over the wound. I don’t have the nerve to put my fingers to the gash. I should. I should be flushing it out and rubbing it to get rid of any grit but I know it will be agonising for him.

  “Cows aren’t so different from people. I’ve learnt a lot from my father about sicknesses that affects cows. Infection is one of our main problems.”

  “Is that right?” I say distractedly.

  I don’t know why, but my earlier queasiness is gone. Is it because I have to do this? I can’t leave Whil to become ill with infection. If I don’t help him, he will die. I rummage through the cupboards, pantry, and drawers before I find a very soft tea towel. Sniffing it, I find it smells clean. I cut a square of it, soak it in Iodine, ring it out, and then lay it over the wound. He winces as I begin wrapping the bed sheet bandage around his head. I’m more professional this time. I’m careful not to hurt him, and I ensure there are no gaps that leave the tea towel underneath exposed. He looks more like a football player when I’m done then when we started.

  I sit down on the other side of the table and bite my lip. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

  “You did a great job, Freya. Relax,” Whil says. “It feels better. Less hot.”

  I can’t manage a smile so I just say, “Good.”

  When I look out the window, it’s nearing dusk and the caravan doesn’t have any lighting. We should find sleeping places before it’s too dark to see anything. I rinse my mouth with some water and run my tongue over the fur on my teeth. I hate the feeling of it.

  “Well, goodnight,” Whil says suddenly. I look at him sitting on the lawn chair and can just make out that he has his arms folded over his chest and his eyes are already closed.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “Why don’t you sleep in the bed? You’re hurt. You need proper rest.”

  My body says the opposite. It says, please, Freya, lie down on the mattress and rest your aching, tired limbs. I would love the bed to cushion my sore limbs and exhausted body, but Whil does need it more.

  “Well, there’s only one bed. I think you should have it,” he says without opening his eyes. “Ladies before gentleman, after all.”

  I’m so used to being treated like one-of-the-boys by my male friends from school that the idea of Whil treating me like a girl startles me into silence. My mouth opens and closes a few times but words don’t come out. The boys I know shove girls around and talk to them about sports, cars, and motorbikes. Well, they used to before vehicles were banned. Why is Whil so different?

  “I think the injured take priority,” I say eventually. “But would it be so weird to sleep together?”

  He opens his eyes and even in the near dark, I see him staring straight at me like a cat watching its prey in the darkness. Was that totally out of line? I feel the immediate need to defend myself. I’m not a girl who strumpets around. I’m the total opposite of that and I don’t want him thinking otherwise.

  “I just meant…. Given the circumstances and all… we haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days. I’m sore and tired. You are too, and it’s a good idea so we can both rest. It isn’t that I want to share the bed with you. That’s just absurd.”

  Whil’s eyebrows arch high on his forehead at my final words. Oh God. What did I just say? I almost slap myself.

  “Whil, come on!” I say exasperated. “I just want to sleep, and I won’t sleep knowing you’re sitting there in a chair with part of your head missing. I’m going to try to sleep, but don’t feel like you have to sit there all night. I don’t care if we share a bed just don’t… touch me.”

  His expression changes completely, from one that was hard and smooth to one that crumples with shock. The shadows fall over his eyes as he hangs his head. I feel instantly guilty.

  “I wouldn’t ever do that,” he says.

  I don’t know what to say anymore. Everything that slips from my mouth makes things worse. I don’t feel embarrassed or angry. I just feel completely daft because it’s so obvious that Whil isn’t that sort of man. So why did I even mention it? I must seem like such a juvenile, immature little brat to him.

  I gather my wits back with each second that ticks by in silence. “Whil,” I say quietly, apologetically. I hold my hand towards him. “Sleep.”

  His lips form a hard line, but then he sighs and his chivalrous resolution washes away. He takes my hand, only briefly, squeezes it gently, and then drops it and goes over to the bed. While he gets comfortable, I busy myself throwing the empty food cans into the Esky outside. Inhaling a deep, calming breath, I head back inside and climb into the bed next to Whil. I don’t know whether he is still upset or if he is actually asleep, but he is facing the wall and has crushed himself against it as hard as he can. He doesn’t say goodnight. There is a good two feet of distance between us, but I can still feel him there when I lie down. The mattress moves as his breaths rise and fall. I close my eyes, concentrating on his breathing and I, too, fall asleep within seconds of lying down.

  ~

  I wake up at dawn the next morning, leave Whil sleeping, and head outside with a towel I found in the caravan. I feel revolting. Three or four-days-worth of dirt and grime coats my body—not to mention the endless amounts of blood. My hair feels greasy and drab. Even at home, we had soap and shampoo that you could make from natural products. There wasn’t any soap in the caravan but I’m desperate to cleanse myself without it.

  I get to the stream we drank from yesterday and strip my clothes off. The air is numbing and when I touch my toe to the water, the freezing temperature of it makes me squeal. Fragments of ice drift in the smooth current and snow has built around the edges of the stream like a taunt. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to take a step into the water and then I sit down.

  It is so cold it hurts, but I am sick of looking and feeling like a homeless person.

  Well, you are a homeless person, something cruel inside of me whispers.

  On that thought, I begin splashing the water over my shoulders and hair, gasping as every bitter cold droplet touches my crawling skin. I scrub at the film of dirt over my body. My hands are especially blackened and I spend an agonisingly cold minute on each, picking the dirt and blood from the lines in my palms and scratching it from under my nails. This part of the creek is very shallow so I have to lie on my back for the water to cover my chest and head. Oil from my hair slowly seeps away with the current. I let the numbing cold wash over my forehead where the large bump acquired from the rally remains. Now th
at I’ve seen how bad Whil’s wound is, my superficial little incision seems insignificant.

  After another minute, I jump out of the creek, shivering while my skin creeps with goose bumps. After wrapping the towel around myself, I gather up my filthy clothes and race back to the caravan. Mist hangs all over the flat, so thick that it drifts around my racing legs. The clamour of me thundering back inside wakes Whil up. I slam the door closed behind me, and go straight to the little cupboard housed beneath the bed, ignoring Whil’s surprised look at me clambering around in the towel. My teeth clack together noisily and I shiver so violently that I can hardly open the cupboard. My entire body feels like it’s been blast-chilled.

  There are clean clothes in the cupboard, but they are meant for an elderly lady. Rummaging through, I find numerous enormous loose pink dresses and old-fashioned floral-patterned long skirts. I pull out a pair of large, frilly underpants and hold them between my thumb and forefinger distastefully.

  “They’d suit you,” Whil says sleepily.

  “Shut up,” I laugh, throwing the underwear at him. He basically dives out of the way of them with a funny little yelp.

  In the end, I go through the man’s cupboard to find clothes. I find a plain black shirt, some warm socks, and a leather jacket. But the man’s jeans don’t fit me, and I finally manage to find a pair of trousers in the lady’s drawers. I pull out a few things for Whil and lay them on the bed.

  “Whil, go wash if you want to. We have to go today,” I tell him when I’m dressed. He is in the kitchen, riffling the cupboards for more food.

  “Already?” he gapes. “Why?”

  “This is the first place they will come looking for us. We have to leave.”

  He looks disappointed when he takes his towel and goes outside. Feeling fresh and restored, I raid the cupboards some more and find two tins, one full of hot cocoa powder and the other of ground coffee beans. I put them aside to take with us. Surely we will need a kick of sugary energy and caffeine on this journey. I also find a packet of matches, a box of biscuits and a bag of dried sultanas.

  There is a discarded hiking bag slumped against the wall so I dump everything in that for the journey, but we shouldn’t go hungry from here on anyway. It might take us a day to walk to my aunt’s from here, but I know where all of the creeks are, and there used to be a few abandoned Bushmen huts along the way. Drovers who brought cattle into the Alps to graze when their paddocks were bare once used the huts. The drovers always restock the supplies, so food and drink is always available to the next traveller.

  Whil comes back, looking paler than usual because of the cold. I blush when I see the towel wrapped only around his waist leaving his whole chest exposed. I know Whil isn’t frail, but I hadn’t expected for him to be so fit. Even though I try to keep my eyes away, they constantly drift back to the milky white plains of his chest and the noticeable muscles rippling in his abdomen. He has a ridiculously seductive ‘V’ shaped muscle just above the hem of the towel.

  God, help me.

  I tear my gaze away when he starts dressing in the clothes I laid on the bed. He wears all of them except for the old man’s jacket. Instead he pulls his dirty olive green one back on and touches the sleeve of it lightly. I sense it must be important to him, but I don’t ask why. We eat a handful of sultanas each, have a big drink of water, and then head off again.

  The temperature outside is horribly brisk, and I crave for the warm alpine spring: when the soft, new grass is growing and the birds sing and newborn animals play in the blossoming meadows. Instead, Whil and I get soaked within a minute of walking through the damp, weedy lovegrass.

  “Should we follow the street?” Whil asks as we come to the main gravel road just fifty metres from our caravan. It veers off two ways. The left road goes deeper into the mountains and eventually, hours down the track, to another town. The right heads back towards my aunt and uncle’s.

  “We need to stay in the bush, but keep the road in sight,” I tell him.

  We take to following the path at a safe distance. It is a windy lane, on occasions very steep and slippery, but Whil and I manage to move along at a fast pace. We keep a thick layer of trees and shrubbery between it, and no horse carriages—or worse, illegal government cars—come by. I feel like we are safe and have evaded our enemies well. We outsmarted them. Well, Whil outsmarted them, but he wouldn’t know where to go if it weren’t for me. I thought he was so useless yesterday but without him, I would still be in the ring trying to work out how to escape. I decide that we do need each other after all.

  I can’t go on this journey alone.

  I can’t live my life alone.

  The bushland changes the further we travel. At Native Dog Flat, the bush and pastures are quite green, almost forest-like, but after several hours of travelling the trees in which we take cover thin out. Multiple deer paths criss-cross through the bushland. We are soon following a strand of small, scattered flats through the bush, which I identify as the Emu Flats.

  The world slowly loses its brighter colours and the bushland turns grey, white and dull green. Only the sky offers a glimpse of bright blue colour. Typical Alpine bushland. Other people think it is dull, lifeless and boring, especially foreigners. But I find it beautiful. Enormous burls on gumtrees make the trunks take amazing shapes. Whil points out one burl that makes its tree look like a pregnant woman. I guffaw at him, and we decide to sit down and rest. We must have been walking for at least five hours by now and the hilly terrain is taking its toll on our bodies. My feet are sore, my back is aching from carrying the backpack (even though Whil and I have been sharing the task) and although it’s cold, the hot sun is shining above us so my nose has burnt. From here on the terrain becomes less difficult to navigate. The mountains slowly transform into open farming pastures where there are few obstacles and the temperature is warmer.

  Whil’s head looks good. I can’t see any blood soaking the white bed sheet yet, so I assume I’ve done a good job wrapping it. We sit on the roots of the pregnant tree, eating some sultanas and a few of the chicken biscuits.

  “I wonder what we will find when we get to this place,” Whil wonders aloud. “How far away are we now?”

  Emu Flat, which we are now, is only a half hour drive from my auntie’s house. So we should be at the house by the end of the day.

  “We’re probably halfway there,” I tell him. “We should be there by nightfall.”

  “What’s it like?”

  I think about the cattle farm. I’ve always thought it was incredible, but it might not seem so to Whil. It isn’t special in any way, after all. I only think so because my family lives there and I have fond memories of it. I wonder if any of their horses or cattle will still be there. If the government took my auntie and uncle, would they have left the livestock in the paddocks to go hungry without proper management? I wouldn’t think so. That’s not a very Biocentric thing to do. However, many things the government does aren’t Biocentric acts at all.

  “Just like a normal farm,” I tell him with a shrug. “Or it was once. Let’s keep going. I wouldn’t mind having a proper sleep tonight.”

  “Did I take up too much room last night? Didn’t you sleep?” Whil asks anxiously.

  I look at him, surprised. “No, you crushed yourself against the wall all night and didn’t move from that position. I just meant a soft mattress instead of the hard ground would be nice after walking all day.”

  Whil nods. “Okay, that’s good. Should we keep going?”

  “Yes,” I say, but as Whil picks up the bag to carry for the next leg of the journey, I wonder if he was genuinely concerned that I hadn’t slept well because of having to share the bed with him. The more I see of Whil, the more I like about him, but I shrug it off and we continue.

  Within the next hour, it is hard to keep concealed while following the road. The trees grow further and further apart until eventually we are walking through completely open pastures and having to jump over barbed wire boundary fences.r />
  Farmers once owned this land. The land we are walking on now belonged to an elderly stockman I once met named Buff. He owned beef cattle and sheep but there are no signs of any livestock on the land now. We come to a deep stream flowing through one paddock. The little torrent is swarmed with chunks of ice that have come loose from the frozen rivers in the mountains.

  I glance towards the road, the temptingly easy-to-follow gravel road, where there is a dry bridge crossing. Neither of us feels like wading through the cold water so we cautiously make our way towards the rickety bridge, Whil watching the road behind and me looking forward. There is no traffic and no signs of life or movement anywhere. Though the silence is a good sign, for it means no guards are about, it is also disconcerting. I’m so used to hearing the bawl of bulls, the baa of sheep, the whinnies of horses, and the creak of wagons full of hay. The silence is disturbing and a cruel reminder that things have changed drastically since my last visit. Whil and I bolt over the bridge like a troll might be hiding beneath it, getting ready to pull us down and devour our flesh. But the real trolls would be on the road above the bridge, and one would have the square-shaped jaw of a man named Seiger.

  We return to following the road at a safe distance through the paddocks. The pastures are all untouched so the grass is high and brushes against our jeans. The silos that sit in the middle of some of the paddocks are empty. In the paddocks there is no leaf canopy to stop the snowfall so the snow is thick and Whil and I trudge through it. I’m glad I’m wearing gumboots but after ploughing through the sphagnum bog three days ago, which filled them with mud, they haven’t had time to dry and my feet are drenched and freezing. We might as well have gone through the stream earlier and saved ourselves the trouble—we are saturated from foot to thigh now anyway.

  Through chattering teeth, Whil makes a joke. “When we got cold on the dairy, we used to stand in the cow poo to warm our feet up.”

  I half laugh and half snort with revulsion. “That’s disgusting.”