Blacky Blasts Back (12 page)

My relief that he was alive turned to despair. How were we going to get him out of that tree without sending him to certain death? Then I heard a ripping sound. Dyl must have been travelling fast when he hit the tree, because the stitching on the strap was coming apart. Even as I watched, a piece of canvas unpeeled from its seam and he sagged a few more centimetres.

‘Far out,' yelled Dyl. ‘This is mad fun.'

Two kids. No equipment. No time to get help. The only thing I agreed with was the ‘mad' part.

I turned my face towards John. He could probably read the horror in it, but I didn't care.

John jumped to his feet and dug his hand down into his pocket. He unravelled a spool of white material from its depths and started paying it out. I watched. It seemed to be cord of some kind. Thin cord.

‘John,' I said. ‘If you're thinking of rescuing Dyl with that, you can forget it.' It would be like winding a length of string around an elephant and trying to use it as a yoyo.

‘Parachute cord,' he said. ‘Strong.'

I wondered why John would be carrying parachute cord around with him. Then I remembered his career ambition and figured he kept it on him to experiment with. Whatever, I was grateful. If he ever needed a referee in his application for Official Hangman of Australia, I'd be happy to oblige.

John tied one end round a sturdy tree trunk and let the other end out over the edge of the cliff until it dangled in front of Dyl's face. Even as Dyl reached to grab it, the seam on his backpack split a little further. John gave clipped instructions on how to tie the cord around his waist, using a secure knot. Dyl had no sooner done so than the seam finally gave way and the strap ripped loose.

I watched, frozen in horror, as Dyl slammed into the cliff face.

The torn backpack rocked in the branches for a couple of seconds before fluttering down into the gorge. I watched it, a strange denim butterfly, until it shrank to a dot and disappeared.

John and I snapped out of our trance at the same time, rushed back to the tree and started pulling on the cord. I found it hard to believe that something as slender and fragile-looking as cotton could take his weight. It was difficult to get a grip, and it bit into our palms. But Dyl was obviously finding handholds and footholds on the cliff face, because we managed to pull up the cord, metre after slow metre. I have never felt so relieved as when Dyl's hands finally popped over the edge of the cliff, followed quickly by his face. He was grinning.

He flopped onto safety. John and I dragged him a few metres away from the drop. We lay, panting and exhausted, for a few moments.

‘Let's do it again,' said Dyl.

I was about to throttle him with my bare hands. If he wanted another near-death experience I was just in the mood to oblige. But I didn't get the chance. A voice boomed in my head.

‘Oi, mush! If you've quite finished having a rest, we need to get on. I dunno! Humans. Always thinking of your comfort. And who's the beanpole twonk?'

I struggled to my feet. Blacky stood in front of me.

And then the smell hit.

I staggered back a couple of paces, nearly went for another double twist with pike off the edge of the cliff, and stopped myself just in time.

Though the stench was so bad, maybe I should have gone for it.

‘Blacky!' I yelled. ‘That is the most disgusting thing I've ever smelled. And I've spent considerable time in your company, remember.'

‘Thanks, tosh. It's a good one, isn't it? Rotting wallaby carcass. Soon as I smelled it, I knew I had to have it. Nearly as good as that fruit bat in Queensland. The combination of maggots and decomposition . . .'

I held up my hand.

‘Way too much information, Blacky,' I said. ‘And let me get this right. You took off, not because there was an emergency, but because you wanted to roll in something dead?'

‘It
was
an emergency, mush. It was like winning the lotto. No dog could pass up that chance. Anyway, we weren't going anywhere, because you couldn't see. Remember?'

‘Blacky,
bucko
, we fell off this cliff! While you were getting yourself a makeover, me and Dyl nearly died!'

Blacky trotted over to the edge and gazed down.

‘I told you not to move a step, tosh. What part of “don't move” did you have trouble understanding? Sorry, mush. Not my fault you have the intellect of an earthworm and can't follow simple instructions.'

I was really tempted to give him a toe-end over the cliff. My foot twitched.

Blacky cocked his head.

‘And you haven't answered my question. Who's the long and ugly streak of pee?'

I glanced at John. His head was moving backwards and forwards, from me to Blacky. It was easy to see why he was confused. A dog in the wilderness? Doesn't compute. I watched out for telltale wisps of smouldering brain matter coming out of his lug-holes, but couldn't spot any.

‘Why?' said John.

‘Sorry, mate,' I replied. ‘I might need more information before I can answer that one.'

‘You. Staring at dog. Dog staring at you. Why?'

It must have appeared bizarre. Dyl, of course, was used to it, but to John it must have seemed as if Blacky and I had hypnotised each other. Or fallen in love. I almost threw up at the thought, though that might have had something to do with the smell that rolled off Blacky in foul waves. Luckily, I kept my stomach safely gathered in. I'd had enough of diced carrots. I imagine John felt the same.

‘It's a long story, mate,' I said. ‘Anyway, it's been fun, but it's time you went back to camp. Dyl and I are going for a little walk. Back soon. Say hi to everyone. Don't save us any breakfast.'

‘No.'

‘Sorry? You
will
save us breakfast?'

‘No.'

‘You wouldn't care to elaborate on that, John?'

‘No.'

‘You can't come with us.'

‘Can. Will.'

I sighed and turned to Dylan.

‘You explain, Dyl.'

Dyl took me by the arm and led me away a few metres. I glanced back. John and Blacky were eyeing each other. Neither seemed impressed. If it had been Kyle instead of John, it might have worked out. They could have taken it in turns to roll in each other.

‘Not goin' to work, mate,' said Dyl. ‘If John's got it into his head to follow us, he will. Anyway, he saved my life. We can't send him away, even if he'd listen. Which he won't.'

‘He saved my life, too,' I said. ‘But he can't come on this mission, Dyl. He mustn't know about Blacky or the Tassie tiger.'

Dyl shrugged.

‘Okay. But we've not got much choice. Like it or not, he's a part of this mission now.'

I sighed. He was right. But I was not happy. Neither was Blacky. He'd got the whole story from reading my mind. He didn't sigh. He snarled.

Dyl and I trailed Blacky through the forest. John trailed us.

Look. I'm a huge fan of Nature. If it released a
CD
I would be first in line to buy it. I'd follow it on Twitter. I'd go and see it live. I
was
seeing it live. But, after four or five hours of trudging through the same type of landscape, I was becoming tired, physically and emotionally.

‘How much further, Blacky?' I asked.

‘About a day,' he replied.

‘W
HAAAT
? You can't be serious.' I was flabbergasted. Never, in my short life, had something gasted my flabber so completely.

‘Do I sound like a stand-up comedian, boyo?'

‘But what are we going to eat?'

‘I thought that pack on your shoulders had provisions.'

It did, though I hadn't had time to check them out before. Emergency rations. Maybe it was one of those things where you poured water on a pill and it transformed into a roast chicken with gravy, mashed potatoes and stuffing. Knowing my luck, it'd probably have Brussels sprouts as well. Dyl's backpack, of course, was at the bottom of a gorge and John, I noticed, hadn't brought his along at all.

Survival food for one would have to stretch three ways.

There'd be one tent for three of us. Not Blacky. I would barricade the flap and set up an electronic burglar alarm before I let that smelly mutt in. Then again, we'd probably wake up in the morning – freezing cold and starving – and find he'd spent the night in a five-star hotel with cable
TV
, gourmet food and a jacuzzi.

We stopped for lunch around noon.

I say lunch, but my hopes about the freeze-dried roast or a pill that would change into a Black Forest gateau turned out to be wildly optimistic. There were granola bars. High-energy, apparently. Low-taste, certainly. It was like chewing cat litter. Not that I've ever eaten cat litter.

Well, yeah, okay. Once. But I was two years old. The cat scratched me as well.

After lunch, just for a welcome change, we walked through forest. My feet were getting blisters. My blisters were getting blisters. The straps of my backpack were digging into my shoulders. All of my muscles ached.

At least there was plenty of water. We often stumbled across small streams; the water was pure, cold and fresh. I had a water bottle attached to my pack and we drank as much as we could and then filled the bottle. You never knew if that was the last stream you'd ever see.

The sun was low when we found a small clearing and set up camp. Dyl and John gathered dry wood while I found some large stones. The talk that Jimmy and Phil had given turned out useful. I arranged the stones in a circle and we broke up some of the smaller twigs into kindling and placed them in the centre. The matches in the survival pack worked, which was a relief.

When the fire caught properly, we fed it bigger branches. Soon there was a roaring blaze. The four of us sat around it. Gradually, warmth returned. Nobody said much, but you couldn't call our camp exactly quiet. For one thing, there was the sound of night-time critters stirring in the bush. For another there was the loud crackle of burning branches. But drowning all that was the sound of three stomachs rumbling. Blacky was okay. Maybe he'd brought along his stash of dried beef. But the rest of us were starving. Just as well the last Tasmanian tiger didn't happen to stroll into our clearing. We'd have had it skinned and roasting in two shakes of a lamb's willie, which wouldn't exactly have helped our mission.

After an hour of gazing moodily into the fire, we put up the tent. We were exhausted. Dyl, John and I stared at the space inside. It was the size of a welcome mat, but not as inviting.

‘If anyone farts,' I said, ‘we are in real trouble.'

Getting inside the tent was a problem. Dyl went first and scrunched himself up against the side. I went next and took up the other wall of the tent. This left a space of about six centimetres between us for John. He was thin, true, but not that thin. By the time he'd winkled himself in we were like sardines in a can.

We smelt like them, too.

No shower and a full day of walking through the forest. Not to mention sweaty brushes with death on a cliff's edge.