Dash and Dingo (44 page)

Dash and Dingo: In Search of the Tasmanian Tiger | 281

The zoo was so still that it was almost like being out in the wilderness again. The animals were quiet and listless; they could not see any other visitors around, and even the wind seemed to be off for the day and visiting elsewhere.

Dingo miserably kicked a stone along the path. “What did you want to come here for, Dash?”

“I thought this would be the starting point of this adventure.” Henry’s fists were jammed deep into his pockets against the bitter cold. “It turns out it’s the end of it. Like crossing the River Styx. Final. I guess I just wanted to see the last known thylacine.” His tone took on a sharp edge toward the end of his sentence.

“It’s depressing.”

“I feel like I owe it… to them.” Funny how his palm wasn’t burning when he
knew
he was in the vicinity of a tiger. Henry wondered if it only worked in the wild, or if the magic had been leached out of his body along with his blood when Hodges had stabbed him.

Maybe it was a fruitless endeavor. Maybe Dingo was right, and it would bring him nothing but sorrow. But Henry felt he had to come here before he went home. To remind himself about what the journey had been for.

“Here,” Dingo said, his voice full of reproach.

A small fenced-in area with dead grass, some dirt, and a tiny concrete hut. This was the home of the last Tasmanian Tiger. It burned Henry’s heart to see such a pitiable enclosure when he had seen others in their natural habitat, to know that this would have been the result had he been able to fulfill his original plan.

“Bloody zoos,” Dingo muttered. “Don’t know what they offer, but suffering.”

“That wasn’t my plan,” Henry said, turning to look at him. “I thought if I could get a pair, we could breed them in safety, get the numbers up again—”

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“I know
you
had the best of intentions, Dash,” Dingo said earnestly.

“And maybe some of those other zoos did as well. But maybe some animals are better off in the wild. They just can’t survive in captivity.”

Henry had read enough research from around the world to know that attempts at breeding the tiger had hardly any results. Perhaps Dingo had a point. The small number of tigers still in the wilds of Tasmania might just have a chance if they were left alone.

“So where is she?” Henry asked.

The owners had christened the tiger Benjamin, and for such an animal of celebrity, her conditions were in no way relative to her worth.

Dingo pursed his lips together, and a familiar sound issued from them:
yip yip yip
.

Henry held his breath as he heard scuffling within the hut, and he was unashamed by the tears that formed in his eyes when the tiger stepped out from the gloom within. Its ears were cocked, and if Henry could be forgiven for giving the animal anthropomorphic features, it seemed to be looking around excitedly for the source of the noise—perhaps hoping for a reunion with its own kin.

Benjamin stood looking down at them, realizing that the humans were the only other animals around than the usual zoo inhabitants that it already knew by smell.

“Hello, beautiful,” Dingo whispered.

The tiger yawned, showing its huge mouth, and just like that, Henry’s palm began burning in his pocket. He drew it out and wrapped his fingers around the chain-link fence. Benjamin trotted over, stood on her massive hind legs, and sniffed at the two men who she now almost towered over. Henry looked into her black, bottomless eyes and seemed to see his whole adventure in Australia through them. He could see what he had been and what he had become. He could go back, but things would never be the same. He wasn’t the same person anymore.

Benjamin dropped back down to all fours, and without even looking back, ran into her hut.

The spell broken, Henry stepped away from the fence, feeling dizzy.

“Dash, are you okay?”

He wanted to fling his arms around Dingo and kiss his sorrows away, but even though they seemed to be alone it couldn’t be risked. He placed his hand on Dingo’s arm, however. “I’m an idiot.”

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“What are you talking about?”

Henry looked back into the now-empty cage, his mind now filled with lines long forgotten. “‘Tyger! Tyger! burning bright’,” he murmured, as if he were far away.

Dingo looked as if he wanted to laugh maniacally. “You’re quoting Blake at me?”

Henry looked at him in surprise. “You know Blake?”

“Every bugger who goes to school knows Blake,” Dingo said

scornfully. “Besides, it’s my dad’s favorite poem.”

“Of course it would be.” Henry stared back into the cage, wishing Benjamin would show herself again.

“‘In the forests of the night,’,” Dingo prodded.

Henry closed his eyes. “‘What immortal hand or eye’,”

“‘Could frame thy fearful symmetry?’.” They spoke the last line together.

Henry opened his eyes again and smiled at Dingo. “Do you remember the whole poem by heart?”

“Probably not all of it. I would have to call in Dad to do that.”

“There’s a stanza… ‘When the stars threw down their spears, / and watered heaven with their tears, / Did he smile his work to see?’”

“‘Did he who made the Lamb make thee?’” Dingo murmured, now

remembering. “Everything’s made for a purpose, Dash.” He swallowed, hard.

“Even us.”

Henry nodded. “Even us. I think Blake got it wrong, though.”

“What?”

“Well, in this case, the tiger is the lamb. Which makes the humans the tiger. We’re the ones who should be feared.”

“Not all of us,” Dingo reminded him.

Henry shifted in closer to him, as close as he could dare. “It just makes me think. Because Jarrah’s right. And you’re right. I was brought here. To be one of their protectors.”

Dingo waited for him to continue, not daring to interrupt.

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“But I was also brought here for us, Dingo. Ever since we met, we’ve collided. Maybe all of this is mixed up together, I don’t know. But here I am.”

The look Dingo gave him was scorching, as if he yearned to scoop up Dash in his arms and holler his triumph to the heavens. But that could not be, here out in the open and in a public place. Instead, Dingo briefly closed his hand over Dash’s. “Here you are.”

There would be logistics to be sorted out later; Henry knew he still had to return home. But all that mattered for the moment was that the future now seemed to be open with all kinds of possibilities that had never been believed in before.

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It was as if nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed.

Henry sat in his office, watching the rain stream down the window, remembering the day four months ago that he’d sat there, letting his tea get cold, poring over the correspondence about the thylacine from Gordon Austin.

He had dreaded meeting this colonial, Jack Chambers, whom Gordon had sent to guide him to locate his obsession.

Now he would have given anything for a sight of Dingo or to hear his cheery “Harroo, Dash!”

But he’d had to leave Dingo behind in Melbourne in order to return home and tie up all the loose ends of his adventures to the college board. They had parted without touching at the docks as Henry climbed the gangplank to the boat that would take him back to England; Dingo had been unable to secure him a plane ride. They had spent one last night in Dingo’s bedroom at the Chamberses’ house, and Helen and Hank had made sure to give them space. They had lain together one last time in Dingo’s small bed, every inch of skin was committed to memory as their passion threatened to consume them and leave nothing behind to tell the tale. But all the way home, across the oceans, Henry had tried not to remember the look on Dingo’s face as the boat pulled away from the dock and how rapidly his face had become an unrecognizable dot all too quickly thereafter.

No one had called him Dash since his return from Australia either. Once again, he had become dull, boring, academic Henry Percival-Smythe. Miss Winton, Professor Larwood’s secretary, had ever so casually inquired where
that refreshing Mr. Chambers
was upon Henry’s return, even while claiming that Professor Larwood was really rather busy today, Mr. Percival-Smythe, and he would surely see him tomorrow.

It had been all too easy to forget the fire that he felt within when he was in Tasmania or the burning on his palm where Jarrah had drawn the tiger. He wanted to hold onto that, but it was as if home was having a narcotic effect upon him and extinguishing all he had felt before. He missed Dingo. He missed the person he had been with Dingo—not Henry Percival-Smythe. Just Dash. He missed Dash.

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Hill came in, bearing the mail on a tray with a pot of tea and a cup and saucer, setting it upon the desk just as he always had.

“Nothing’s changed, Hill, has it?” Henry asked.

Hill shot him a reserved glance that Henry was at a loss to interpret.

“No, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

Something was different. Something felt wrong. “Hill, what’s been going on around here while I was gone?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir. I just fetch the tea.” Having put Henry satisfactorily into his place, Hill left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Henry frowned and reached for the mail. As he did every day since returning, he hoped for a missive from Dingo. Once again, there was nothing from him. But there was a letter in a familiar hand, and he eagerly tore it open.

March 22nd 1935

Dear Henry,

I know you have been back home for a while now. I have

just returned from meeting with Hank and Dingo and

finding out all the details of what occurred in Tasmania.

I know you must want answers, and although Dingo

supplied you with some of them I should give you my

side of the affair.

You most likely feel some sense of betrayal about how I

sent you to Australia under the pretence of obtaining

live thylacine specimens when all along I expected you to

return home empty-handed. I do feel guilt over my

deception, but you must realize, Henry, that I wanted

you to become part of our team. Your interest in the

thylacine was so passionate and pure that you served to

remind me of myself, twenty or so years ago. I knew that

once you saw the tiger for yourself, you would make the

right decision on their behalf. Your addition to our ranks

will only be of benefit to us and to the remaining tigers.

In time we will divulge even more details, and what our

future plans involve.

But for now, my dear Henry, I need to make you know

that I have absolute faith in you. Everything the

Chambers men have told me only serves to accentuate

Dash and Dingo: In Search of the Tasmanian Tiger | 287

that. They spoke highly of you at every opportunity. You

have lifelong friends in that family, and believe me, they

are the best allies you could ever have in your life.

Write soon and tell me everything. I want to hear your

own story in your own words. And hopefully one day

soon we will meet in person.

Respectfully, your friend,

Gordon Austin

Henry sighed and folded the letter closed. He wondered whether he should destroy it, but it was a tangible link to Australia and to Dingo. He would take it home and find a safe place to hide it. There was a part of him that wanted to be angry with Gordon, but he remembered what it felt like to see a thylacine in its natural habitat and to know that in the end leaving it there was the best thing for it. So he couldn’t be angry. It was a bittersweet feeling, however.

And now he sat here, waiting. Waiting for some response to the report he had turned in, some acknowledgement of the amazing adventure he had been on, even though he had returned to report failure. The extinction of the thylacine. Even though he had “proved” a negative, it was still an advance in the scientific understanding of the world they lived in, and Henry could not fathom why there had been so little response.

He got up and went to the window. He could barely see the grounds for the water streaming down the window, but a group of men, huddled under umbrellas, entering the main administrative building caught his attention.

If Dingo had done nothing else for him, he had at least taught Henry to pay attention to his instincts. Leaving the tea to get cold once more and disdaining the use of an umbrella or hat, Henry strode downstairs and out into the rain, limping only a little bit now.

He raised his face into the rain and smiled, remembering a certain occasion in Tasmania where he and Dingo had danced naked in the rain. A rush of heat suffused his body, and he hurriedly pushed the memory into the background. It was something to savor in private, definitely not a subject he wanted to be dwelling on in Lardarse’s presence.
Larwood
, he reminded himself.

He took the stairs two at a time, opening the door to the anteroom without knocking. Miss Winton looked up in shock.