Blacky Blasts Back (15 page)

‘John,' I said once my hands were free. ‘I need a short length of your parachute cord and a small branch from that shrub.'

Luckily, John was quicker when it came to practical matters than with concepts. I had a small piece of cord and a half-metre of branch within seconds. Of course, tying the branch to Blacky's tail wasn't very easy. He's only got a short stump of a thing—

‘Oi, tosh. Watch your mouth. That tail may be challenged in terms of length, but I'm very attached to it.'

—and getting the branch to stay in place rather than dragging along the ground was tricky. In the end, there wasn't time. It would have to do. Then I spat into the dirt and mixed it around with my fingers. The fifteen stripes I made across Blacky's back and flanks weren't chocolate brown, but they were dark. I sat on my heels and examined my handiwork.

Blacky wasn't a dead ringer for a Tasmanian tiger. He was too small for one thing. And entirely the wrong colour. In fact, he looked like a small dirty-white dog with a branch stuck on his tail doing a totally putrid impersonation of a pygmy zebra. But I was banking on the hunters getting carried away by the moment.

Dyl let Blacky go. I noticed he kept his hands well away from the dog's jaws, which, under the circumstances, was wise. But Blacky had apparently come to accept that my plan had merit, even if it dented his self-esteem.

‘I want you to know that if you ever spread this story, tosh, you're dead.' I cocked
my
head this time. ‘I dumped on your doona once,' he continued. ‘Next time it'll be your face.'

‘
Very
refined,' I replied. ‘Now go, Blacky. Run like the wind.'

I peered through a small gap in the bush. The hunters were no more than twenty metres away and heading straight towards us. Everything now depended on Blacky's acting skills and the hunters being complete bozos. As it turned out, I needn't have worried about either.

When Blacky leaped out from behind the bush, the hunters halted as if they'd stood on garden rakes and been smacked between the eyes by the handles. Fear and confusion spread across their faces, quickly followed by waves of excitement and joy. I could almost read their minds.

‘A Tasmanian tiger! Finally! Okay, it looks like a pale and ugly runt with dodgy stripes and foliage sticking out its bum, but it's got to be a tiger!'

George fumbled for his camera while Blacky stood and gave a clear view of his stripes. He even tried to wag his branch but I think it must have been too heavy. Then he took off into the long grass. The hunters yelped and gave chase. It was easy to see where Blacky was heading. The swaying of the grass showed his every movement. But he wasn't content with that. Every fifty metres or so he jumped into the air. I don't think his new tail helped much, because he wasn't very aerodynamic. But each time his squat body appeared over the top of the grass, George and Gloria nearly pooped their pants in excitement and redoubled their efforts to catch him.

It was Blacky's finest moment.

I vowed that, when this was all over, I'd present him with an Oscar for Best Small Dog with a Branch Stuck Up Its Bum Impersonating a Tasmanian Tiger Impersonating a Wallaby.

Somehow, I reckoned the shortlist for this category wouldn't be too long.

He disappeared over the brow of a hill. Within moments the hunters had also vanished, along with the sound of clashing pots and pans. I let out a long sigh. Success!

Then I peered through the bush again.

Failure!

Maybe Jimmy and Mr Crannitch weren't fooled. Maybe they didn't care. Whatever, they were still heading straight for us. I buried my head in my hands. I gave up. I was tired and out of ideas. I was only dimly aware, through my dark, depressing fog, of Dyl and John whispering to each other.

Dyl touched my arm.

‘Down to you now, mate,' he said. ‘Catch you later.'

Then he and John jumped out from the bush and ran into the knee-high grass. This time, it was Jimmy and Mr Crannitch who halted in their tracks as if they'd struck an invisible wall.

‘Hey, Jimmy, ya hairy Scottish balloon,' yelled Dyl. ‘You can kiss our spotty butts!'

And he and John dropped their dacks and mooned them.

There was silence. It was certainly a day for bizarre sights. I don't know which was more surprising, the vision of Dyl's and John's bums reflecting the pale sunlight or the way Jimmy's and Mr Crannitch's jaws crashed onto their boots. But, in a few seconds, Dyl and John had gathered in their rear ends and legged it into the distance.

Jimmy and Mr C continued acting like stunned mullets and then gave chase. Jimmy was super-fit. You could see his bandy legs, heavy with hair and muscle, whirring like a demented fan. Mr C trailed behind, weaving slightly as he followed.

John and Dyl, I reckoned, would eventually be caught. Jimmy might be old but I got the impression he had staying power and lungs like high-performance pistons. They'd bought me time, though. Within a minute I was alone in the landscape.

Alone that is, except for a battered body at my feet and three small bundles of life.

You will have to take my word for it, but the body of a tiger is heavy. Particularly when it has three young still attached. It took all my strength to lift Tess. My knees buckled under the strain. But I had to move her. The spots of dried blood would probably disappear in a day or two, washed away by rain, but I couldn't take the chance of someone discovering the evidence if I buried her there.

I had a promise to fulfil.

I stumbled through the bush for maybe an hour. I had to stop often and shift Tess's weight in my arms, which felt like they'd been injected with lead. After a while I didn't even notice the smell. Sweat stung my eyes. I didn't really have a destination. I just needed to put space between myself and that bush.

Finally, the decision about destination was taken for me. I sagged to my knees and, try as I might, couldn't get to my feet again. This place, wherever it was, would have to do.

I looked around. The trees were sparse but provided some cover. The ground was soft. I placed Tess down carefully and started to dig.

The first ten centimetres was easy. The soil parted between my fingers and I scooped it into a mound. But then it became more difficult. There were roots crisscrossing the forest floor and I couldn't snap them. I sat and wiped my forehead with one muddy hand. Then I opened my backpack. Maybe the emergency pack would contain a knife. It didn't. But I found a metal mug and dug with that. It couldn't get through the roots but, little by little, I made space.

Depth was the key. I didn't want her body dug up by predators. I remembered what I'd read about Tasmanian devils. They were carrion feeders and would eat the bodies of anything they found. I couldn't remember if they would dig to find food, but I wasn't prepared to take the chance. Centimetre by slow centimetre I dug.

‘Need a hand, mush? Or should I say a paw?'

I was so tired I could barely lift my head.

Blacky had lost the tail. All that springing around like a jack-in-the-box must have dislodged it. Most of his stripes had disappeared, too. A small image from Blacky's mind popped into mine. A dog on its back, rubbing and writhing against coarse grass. He looked like himself again and I was pleased to see him.

Blacky jumped into the small hole I'd dug and gave it some with his front paws. A cloud of dirt sprayed between his hind legs. I shuffled out of the firing line, rested my head against Tess's and watched. Within ten minutes the hole had swallowed Blacky but he continued digging. After a while, I dragged myself over and scooped away the dirt falling back into the grave.

Later, I carefully took the pups from Tess and laid them on the ground. They snuggled together, their thin stripes merging.

Then I placed Tess into the dark depths of the hole.

I was too exhausted to feel more grief. Or maybe I was so steeped in sorrow I no longer had the means to express it. At any rate, my eyes were dry. I took one last look at her curled body, snug in its final resting place and felt I
should
say something. But I couldn't think of anything. I was empty.

‘Sorry,' I whispered once more. But it didn't feel like enough. Not nearly enough. I started to fill the hole.

Afterwards, Blacky and I stared at the mound. Maybe I should have felt pleased with myself. I had done part of what Tess had asked. But as I gazed at the small, squirming forms of her children, I felt only despair.

‘I can't take these pups with me, Blacky,' I said. ‘And I certainly can't kill them. I know I made a promise to their mother, but I can't keep it. I have no choice.'

‘There's always a choice, mush.'

‘You're right. If I gave the pups to the scientists, they 'd look after them. Maybe clone them. The species could survive.' ‘Tess specifically said no to that, tosh.'

‘But Tess didn't consider the alternatives,' I argued. ‘She was in pain, not thinking straight. Even if I managed to successfully hide them – and there's no chance of that – bring them up somehow to adulthood, they are females. I can only offer them death. Scientists could offer life.'

Blacky rested his head on my leg. At any other time I would have been amazed at this show of affection but I was too tired, physically and emotionally, to feel anything.

‘I understand if you can't do it, Marc,' he said. ‘Maybe it's best if it's me. I'll make it quick. They won't feel a thing.'

I burst into tears.

‘No, Blacky,' I wailed. ‘I can't bear it.'

‘Then look away, tosh.'

‘What about the pups' father?' I cried. I was desperate enough to clutch at any straw, though I knew Tess and Blacky wouldn't have overlooked anything so obvious.

‘Dead.' He paused. ‘Come on, Marc. Take a walk. I'll find you when it's all over.'

‘No,' I said. I dried my eyes and got to my feet. A cold resolve filled me. ‘That's not happening. There's been too much death. I'll stay here with them. I'll hide out in the Tasmanian bush. You can bring food for all of us.
We
can be their mother and father. It's not impossible. We're resourceful. And in a couple of years I can go home.'

‘You can't be serious, mush,' said Blacky. ‘There's no way you can survive out here.'

I gazed into the forest. My new home.
There are worse places to live
, I thought. Then I remembered our trek through the night and the scuttling of unseen things in the dark. Fear pricked my skin.

‘Oh, but I
am
serious, Blacky,' I whispered. ‘Deadly serious.'

I pitched my tent in a dense part of the forest.

I would have preferred a clearing, close to a river, but I couldn't take the chance of being spotted. As the sun went down, the cold gathered and seeped into my bones. I couldn't light a fire in case a search party caught its flickering through the bush. So I crawled into the tent with the three pups and tried to ignore my stomach cramping with hunger.

Blacky had gone to fetch his store of dried beef. He'd argued, but I was having none of it. The tiger pups must be starving, and under the circumstances I was prepared to become a meat eater again. Blacky told me he would be at least six hours getting the food. I thought I'd be fine for that length of time. After all, I was prepared to be alone out here for a couple of years, so six hours would be easy.

It wasn't.

Darkness brought out those peculiar snufflings and scratchings from the surrounding bush. No light. Eerie sounds. I felt very small and very afraid.

And it was so cold, I lifted up my sweater and allowed the pups close to my skin where they huddled for warmth. It was a strange feeling. But good.

Until one of them decided I was its mother and tried to find out where the milk was stored.

Have you ever been nipped in the chest by a small Tasmanian tiger? Take it from me, it does nothing to improve your mood when you're cold, hungry and frightened.

‘Owwww!' I moaned. It held on for grim death and I had to pry its mouth open, detaching its jaws gently from my skin. ‘I'm calling you Tonia,' I said. ‘Because when she gets her teeth into you it's almost impossible to shake her free as well.'