Forest Spirit (9 page)

‘Shut up Quigley, just go and make yourself useful, like Dad said.'

They set to work while Shadow circled the campsite, sniffing and leaving his mark here and there.

After putting up the tent, Jars stepped back to admire their work. ‘It's big, isn't it?'

Snook joined her. ‘Yeah, sleeps five easy.' He thumbed his finger in Quenton's direction and laughed. ‘Look over there. You were right – we should have given the fat sod a hand. Look at him. Standing around with a stupid look on his dial.'

‘Before we go help him, Snook, there's something that's bothering me.'

‘Yeah, what's that?'

Jars sat on the grass next to their tent. Shadow padded over and lay at her side.

‘That lady back there, she was wearing the same perfume I could smell at Quenton's house.'

‘So what?'

‘Maybe she was the other person in the Quigley house yesterday.'

Snook scratched his head. ‘Geez, Jars, you sure like mysteries, don't you? But I can't see any mystery here. There must be lots of women who wear perfume like that. And even if she was in the Quigley house, what does it matter? But if you ask me, it's probably all just a coincidence.'

Jars rubbed her chin as though deep in thought. ‘It's just that there seems to be an awful lot of coincidences lately. Like Mr Carter telling us about a Forest Spirit.'

‘Oh, that. That's probably to do with an old Aboriginal legend or something. Nothing for us to worry about.'

‘Snook,' Jars began, her voice hesitant, ‘you know when I said I'd had a visit from a sort of spirit, well, I think Mr Carter's spirit is my spirit too.' She patted Shadow on the head and rose to her feet.

‘There you go again, thinking up more mysteries. Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic? Didn't you hear Mr Carter explain about those petra things? He told us that some of them looked like the one in his drawing. Nope, I reckon your ideas are a bit far-fetched.'

‘No, it's not far-fetched. I've told you before, I'm pretty sure my spirit is real.'

Snook cocked his head to one side. ‘How come you know whether it's real or not? What makes you so sure?'

‘It's kind of something I just know, like when birds migrate. I know that they do it every year and I know why – to follow the warm weather and go where they can find food. They know exactly when to leave and how to get to their new place.'

‘How do they do that?'

‘That's what I don't understand. This spirit is like that. I think I know
why
I've seen him, but
how
he comes to me, night after night in my head, I don't know.'

‘Okay,' Snook said, trying to follow what Jars meant. ‘If what you say is true, then why does he do it?'

‘It's like I told you before. He's asking for help.'

‘Sounds a bit too weird for me.'

‘There's something else.'

Snook sighed, but continued to listen.

‘The ranger might have seen him too. He's definitely been in the cave. Some petroglyphs might look like each other, but his drawing is exactly like the one I saw. I'm sure of that.' Jars' eyes, glowing now, settled on Snook. ‘Do you believe in destiny?'

Her words, clear and deliberate, caused Snook to step back.

‘Eh?'

‘Because I think we're going to meet the spirit – soon.'

Snook stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘C'mon, let's help get Quigley's tent up.'

Reluctantly, Jars let the matter drop.

Snook's father finished unloading the station wagon. He walked over to where Jars and Snook stood talking near Quenton's tent. Quenton stood slightly apart from them, like a stranger looking on.

‘Good,' Jim said, walking over and seeing the two tents erected, ‘but you haven't finished yet. Quenton, you go and fix up your camp bed. When you've done that, make sure you zip your tent up. We don't want any unwanted guests visiting you during the night.'

Quenton's eyes popped. ‘Like snakes, do you mean?'

Snook laughed. ‘Don't worry – no respectable snake would wanna bunk in with you.'

Jim glared at his son. ‘That's enough. Stop teasing. Now, make yourself useful and get a fire going. It's past lunchtime. I, for one, am starving. Jars can help you. In the meantime, I'll set up our camp stretchers.'

After a short time, the fire glowed with coals. Quenton watched as Snook began to barbeque some sausages.

‘What? Snags? Why can't we have some steak? I don't like those.'

Snook looked up. ‘Bad luck, it's these or nothing, so stop whinging and go and tell Dad that lunch is ready.'

After their lunch was finished Snook's father rubbed his hands together. ‘That was good. You can't beat a barbecue.' He pointed towards the lake. ‘Who wants to go fishing? Maybe we can hook a few trout for tea.'

‘That'd be great,' Snook said. ‘I'll get the rods. Coming, Jars?'

She thought for a few seconds. Visions of a live fish fighting for its life on the end of a line filled her head. ‘No, I'll stay here with Shadow and clean up. Maybe Quenton would like to go.'

Quenton held up his new camera. ‘No way,' he said, sniffing and tossing his head in the air. ‘I've got better things to do.' He started walking away.

Snook's father overheard.

‘Okay, Quenton, but remember, don't go wandering too far from camp.'

After clearing and washing the lunch plates and mugs, Jars collected some firewood, closely followed by Shadow. When she had finished she glanced towards the sun. Snook and his dad had been gone for well over an hour. She scanned the lake's edges; they were nowhere to be seen.

And Quenton hadn't returned.

She made a quick decision. Better go and look for him, she decided. He'd been in a sulky mood when he'd left. There was no telling what he might get up to in that state of mind. Surely her uncle wouldn't mind her going, not if she went just a little way into the forest. She was just going to fetch Quenton back.

Wombat Track turned out to be a narrow, damp path littered with dead leaves and twigs. The branches of the trees hung over the track, and on each side of her, a tangle of thick scrub – trees, bushes, and hanging vines – grew to its edges. Gloom coiled among the trees, where only thin shafts of light could penetrate, creating dark shadows that skipped ahead of her as she picked her way over the rotting leaves and dead branches. She smelt the musty dankness in the air, and all around, tiny fantails and wrens danced from bush to bush, chirping and chattering.

She shivered. It was cold. Shadow, grinning eagerly, trotted closely behind. Better not go too far, she reminded herself, even though she'd never get lost – not in the bush. But Quenton Quigley, she had come to realise, was another matter; there was no telling what he might do.

After a while, she came to a grassy clearing. Stopping, she cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a long, shrill ‘Coo-ee!' Standing perfectly still, she listened. Nothing. She heard only the constant chatter of the birds as they continued to dart among the branches. She kept going, stopping from time to time to call out again. Still there was no reply.

‘He was told,' she muttered to herself. ‘He was warned against wandering off on his own.' She stopped once again, hands on hips, thinking. Could he really get himself lost? If he left the track, that was highly likely, she realised, looking at the thick scrub once again. Surely he wouldn't do that. Slightly irritated, she started to move off. Better keep looking. Can't give up now.

It was then that she heard the crashing sounds.

Sounds that reminded her of the buffalo.

She slipped behind a large tree-fern, watching. Then, from her left, arms windmilling, eyes wild and staring, Quenton Quigley broke through the undergrowth and onto the track.

Stepping from her cover, Jars stood in his path. ‘Quenton! What on earth …?'

Gasping and sobbing, with perspiration streaming down his face, he saw Jars and stopped. ‘I – I've seen the ghost,' he blurted. ‘The one the ranger told us about. He's back there. In a cave. He – he tried to get me. He grabbed me around the neck.'

Shadow, sensing something was wrong, whined and began sniffing around Quenton's feet and legs.

‘Quenton, try to calm down,' Jars said. ‘Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.'

‘It's all right for you,' he said, his voice quivering, ‘you weren't there.'

‘For goodness sake, Quenton, just tell me,' Jars said, raising her voice.

‘There was this wombat. On this track. Right in front of me, he was. I wanted to get a photo, but he kept wandering off. So I went after him – to a cave.'

Quenton's breathing had eased to something like normal by now, but his body, Jars noticed, was trembling. ‘You followed a wombat?' Jars said. ‘How come? I've never seen a live one but I know they're a wild animal. Why didn't it simply run away, like you'd expect?'

‘How should I know? All I did was go after it to take a photo, but it wouldn't stand still. It just kept going and going, till it reached the cave.'

‘Then what?' she encouraged.

‘It was dark in the cave but I could still see the wombat, so I took a photo with the flash. That's when I saw the ghost. He had hundreds of eyes. They flashed like they were lumi … lumi …' He struggled for the word.

‘Do you mean luminous?'

‘Whatever. All I know is they were looking at me. I took off. Just as I was leaving the cave, I felt his fingers grab my neck. Real sticky they were.'

As though in shock and without warning, Quenton bent over, shoulders heaving, as if he was about to be sick. He gagged and dry retched. Shadow whined again.

‘Here, Shadow,' Jars called, both amazed and embarrassed as Quenton knelt in front of her. She tried to decide what to do. What was best? Then she noticed. His shirt was torn at the sleeve. There was something else. Something was missing. ‘Quenton, where's your camera?'

Quenton stopped gagging. He straightened and reached towards his shoulder where the camera should have been. ‘It's gone,' he stammered. ‘I – I must have lost it back there.'

Jars sighed. ‘We'd better go and find it. From what you've been saying it was very expensive. So c'mon, we'll follow your tracks, find your camera, and then head back to camp before we get into trouble.'

Quenton wiped a hand over his eyes. ‘Why should I get into trouble? I've done nothing wrong.'

Jars ignored him and turned to go. She expected him to follow. He didn't. When she turned back, she could see that Quenton was already heading off in the opposite direction back towards the campsite.

‘Hey, where are you going?' Jars called out. ‘We have to go this way.'

‘No,' Quenton cried over his shoulder. ‘There's no way I'm going back. Didn't you listen to what I was telling you? There's a ghost back there.'

Jars shook her head, watching Quenton as he quickly disappeared around a bend. Snook was right. Quenton was an idiot. She wondered whether he would be capable of making it back on his own. Deciding that even he could manage that, she started to retrace his tracks through the scrub. She would have to go and find his ‘precious' camera on her own.

She had not gone far when she heard a noise, a snuffling sound. She halted and searched for the source. Nothing. Shrugging, she carried on.

Suddenly she froze. Blocking her path was a wild creature, short and stocky, dark grey in colour, and about a metre long. It was staring at her, its brown eyes unwavering. ‘Quenton's wombat', she mouthed, ‘the one he told me about.'

She wondered whether it would lead her to the cave – to Quenton Quigley's ghost.

Back at the house, Evelyn Grimshaw sat hunched over the kitchen table. She frowned, then cradled her head in her hands. Her mind raced. The ranger's friend and those three kids were a threat. She had warned them not to stray from their camp, but what if they did? Especially those kids. Kids could be unpredictable, likely to do anything. And if they did? It was unthinkable. They could stumble on her set up. Then her careful planning, her dreams, would be shattered.