Forest Spirit (10 page)

She clenched and unclenched her hands and pushed herself up from the table. Still deep in thought, she walked over to the lounge room window where she stood, hands folded behind her back. She gazed absently outside.

As usual, the street was quiet, almost deserted, except for a couple of tourists who were strolling along the footpath, stopping now and then to gaze into one of the shop windows. Eventually, since it was lunchtime, they stepped into Bob's Take-a-Way. There were two cars parked on the road outside the Tiger Hotel – she recognised them as regulars – and somewhere, probably in someone's backyard, a dog was barking. Nothing ever changes in this town, she said to herself. I have to get out.

She turned away from the window and rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I'm tensing up,' she told herself. ‘It's getting to me, all these new developments.' Before, she had been confident that her scheme would work, but now, with that family camped so close to her operation, she was not so sure. She rubbed the back of her neck again, but the tension remained.

So did her thoughts.

As though she were watching a movie, pictures scrolled behind her eyes. The three kids, the father, all standing around laughing, the police with their handcuffs, waving them in her face, her brothers being led off to a police van.

She shuddered and shook her head. ‘Stop it!' she told herself. ‘Pull yourself together. Get through today and tomorrow it'll happen.'

With new resolve, she walked back to the kitchen. She could use a coffee.

Jars and Shadow remained perfectly still, watching the wombat that stood barely an arm's length in front of them. Without thinking, words escaped from Jars' mouth. ‘What is it? What do you want?' At once she felt ridiculous. How could a wild thing understand her?

The wombat swayed from side to side, then turned and set off. After a few metres, it stopped and swivelled its neck to look back before setting off again.

‘You want me to follow you?' Jars said, not believing what she was saying. She looked down at the dog. ‘Most dogs would have chased after that wombat long ago, Shadow, but not you. Why? Is it because you know something I don't? You want me to follow the wombat, do you? Is that it?'

Shadow woofed and wagged his tail. ‘It looks like you've made up
your
mind,' Jars said. ‘C'mon then, let's follow him.'

This is silly, she told herself. She didn't even know where she was going, where it was taking her. Was it to the cave, she wondered? The cave where Quenton was scared by a ghost? They came to an area of ferns and bushes that had been flattened recently. Quenton's work, she told herself. This was where he had run in a blind panic. She wondered whether he had really seen a ghost.

The cave was almost invisible. Several tree ferns and a large boulder concealed the entrance. The wombat wriggled through. Jars followed, ducking to avoid some spider webs. Shadow came after her. She entered the cave and scrambled to her feet. Despite the dim light, she knew at once. This was her cave; this was the cave in her dreams.

She fished the pencil flashlight that the ranger had given to her from her pocket and quickly twisted the end until she got a beam. She shone the light around the cave; she saw at once that the cave was large, as big as a house.

From a far wall a thousand eyes flashed. They blinked on and off and rippled up and down the wall like waves.

Quenton's ghost.

She smiled. She knew what it really was – glow-worms. A kind of firefly, she remembered from her school lessons, sometimes called lightning bugs. The glands inside them caused the fiery glow. She must have disturbed them.

Water drops splashed onto her face and arms. She looked up. They were coming from tiny holes in the roof where golden arrows of light from the outside speared into the gloom of the cave.

Somewhere in the cave's far reaches, the murmuring sounds of a stream reached her ears.

With careful steps, she picked her way towards the sound of the flowing water. She came across a shallow chasm, long and narrow like a deep scar. Clusters of stalactites reached down from the roof. Stalagmites, like giants' fingers, stretched upwards. At the bottom of the chasm a stream gurgled.

It was then that she felt her spine tingle. She was being watched. She flashed her torch around the cave. It wasn't the wombat, she was sure of that. His eyes couldn't hide from the beam of her torch. No, it was something else, something you couldn't see. With a rising uneasiness, she made her way back towards the cave's entrance, shining the light from side to side as she went.

A sharp cry escaped from her throat. There it was on the wall, a familiar drawing. She had missed seeing it when she had first come in, probably because she'd been so intent on finding the source of the water. She shone her light onto the carving, studying its every feature – the swirls, the tracks and the jagged circles. Like the ranger had told them, the tracks held a symbolic meaning for the original owners of the land. Animals had been important; they were a food source. She understood that. What did puzzle her were the small circular shapes that did not seem to belong.

Then, suddenly and without warning, the figure began to change.

Jars held her breath. She stood, wide-eyed and deathly still. The face of an old man appeared on the rock face – the ancient being, who had spoken to her.

‘What is it?' she asked. ‘What do you want?'

His words formed like magic in her head: ‘The rocks are weeping. Kodkuna yultan.'

Transfixed, as though suspended in time, she stared. Then, as quickly as it had formed, the drawing faded. Once again, it became a series of swirls and dashes.

Her eyes searched the floor beneath the carving. She gasped and took a step backward. There, at her feet, were the remains of a dead person – a pile of white bones.

Her body began to tremble. She tried to move her legs but they refused to obey.

The wombat's soft fur brushed against her legs as it swayed slowly past her. It was heading towards the exit. It stopped and turned, as though asking her to follow. It was time to leave.

‘Let's go, Shadow,' she urged, somehow finding the will and strength to tear herself away. As she stumbled towards the wombat and the outside light, her mind screamed at what she had seen. The ranger had been right. She had seen it for herself. She had just witnessed some sort of sorcery, the magic of the cave.

Still shaking, she reached the exit and wriggled through the narrow opening. Standing erect, she brushed her face and hair with her hands. Something was there, clinging and sticking. She pulled her hand away, looking at the sticky mass that had clung to her fingers. The remains of the spider webs, the ghostly fingers that had clutched at Quenton Quigley's throat.

She swatted them off and looked around. The wombat had gone. She shivered. It was chilly. She glanced towards the sun, now lower in the sky. Soon it would disappear behind the mountains.

Quickly, Jars set out towards the track that would take her back to the camp. The others would be worried. ‘C'mon Shadow,' she called, ‘we'd better hurry.'

A sound, like a twig cracking, brought her to an abrupt halt. She strained to listen. Nothing. But there was something out there. She could sense it.

Puzzled, she hurried on, anxious to be with the others. She didn't like the icy feeling of dread that had suddenly crept over her skin. She didn't like it at all.

At the far end of the lake a breathless Hector Grimshaw burst into the makeshift camp.

Arnie, who was placing some wood on the fire, looked up. ‘Ah, hi, Hector. Did you get it all done? Did you fix up all them cage things? Are we, ah, going to get everything ready now for the boat. Are we?'

‘Never mind that,' Hector snapped as he walked quickly over to his brother. ‘And put that fire out. It looks like we've got some neighbours. I saw a young girl wandering around not far from here. She won't be alone either. There'll be others for sure. If they see us and find out what we're doing, we're sunk.'

Hector looked around. Set back from the lake, they had made camp in an area fringing the trees on the opposite side of the forest, about two kilometres from the Kelly camp. It was an ideal site, chosen carefully to meet their needs, which were anonymity and seclusion. Consisting of stunted bushes, ferns and pockets of moss, the area they had chosen was invisible – even to the eyes of anglers in passing boats. A further bonus was the fact that no-one was ever likely to make the difficult trek along Wombat Track. Their activities had easily been kept a secret. But now …

‘Who are they?' Arnie asked, his head tilted to one side.

‘Dunno. I don't even know how many of them there are. Or if they're camping, or if they're just staying for the day. All I know is we have to find out. See what they're up to.'

‘Then what, Hector? Do we go and um, visit them people?'

‘No, you idiot. But if they're here for the long haul we gotta make sure they don't come snooping around.'

‘Ah, how, Hector? How do we do that?'

‘We'll find out tonight, when it's dark.' He shoved Arnie in the side. ‘Now do like I said. Put that fire out.'

Jim Kelly was cooking some trout he and Snook had caught earlier, when the sound of footsteps running through grass made him look up. It was Jars. He called out to Snook, who was nearby. ‘Come and look after these fish will you, while I go and have a word or two with your cousin.'

He walked towards Jars, his steps slow but purposeful. Jars saw her uncle coming towards her. When she drew near, he stopped, blocking her path. He folded his arms and glared, as if daring her to speak.

She knew she was in trouble. She felt her stomach clench. ‘So, where do you think you've been?' he said at last. He glanced at his watch. ‘It's past seven o'clock for God's sake. Did you forget what you were told – about wandering off on your own?'

Jars lowered her head and stared at the ground, not sure what to say. She wondered whether Quenton had mentioned the cave and how she had gone looking for him. It didn't seem likely. Her uncle's anger told her that. No, Quenton had told a different story one that wasn't true. Why else would her uncle be so upset?

‘Look at me when I talk to you,' her uncle continued. ‘We were all starting to get worried about you, including Quenton, who tells me he even went looking for you.'

Jars looked up. She shook her head. ‘No, that's not … that's not how –'

‘And that's not all. He tells me you lost his camera, which you'll have to replace somehow. Now, what do you have to say? I don't want any lame excuses either.'

Jars hated what she saw. Her uncle's face had turned a deep shade of red. His eyes, unblinking, screamed at her. ‘So, like I said before, what have you got to say for yourself?'

She caught a glimpse of Quenton, who was peering from behind his tent. She wiped her hand across her eyes. ‘S-sorry,' she managed. ‘I … I won't do it again.'

‘Okay,' he said, ‘we'll leave it at that. Go and clean yourself up. Then come and have something to eat; the fish should be cooked by then.'