For Wendy, who always believed, for Robyn,
who always insisted, and for Shadow, always a
source of inspiration.
Forest Spirit
By David Laing
First Published 2008 by JoJo Publishing
This edition published 2018 by Woodslane Press
© 2008 David Laing
No part of this printed or video publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner:
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data
Laing, David
Forest Spirit
ISBN 9780987410368 (ePub.)
Target Audience: For upper primary to lower secondary school age.
A823.4
Editor: Susan Cutsforth
Designer / typesetter: Rob Ryan @ Z Design Media
Digital Distribution: Ebook Alchemy
David Laing spent a large part of his life as a teacher and school principal working in South Australia, Tasmania and the Northern Territory.
He always wanted to be a full time writer, except when he was about 7 years old – his ambition then was to be a cowboy! Now, David spends his time creating characters such as Jars, Snook and Quenton – inspired by the many characters he has met in his travels, particularly in the Australian Outback.
Originally from Loanhead, Scotland, David now resides in Deloraine, Tasmania, with his wife Wendy and faithful German shepherd, Shadow. Forest Spirit is David’s first novel.
He was an old buffalo, big and grey, with long black horns stretching along his back. He stood, partly hidden in the thick spear grass, and scattered here and there tall eucalypts, silent and sentinel, dotted the landscape.
The bush grew quiet.
Even the cockatoos, who, just moments ago, were flocking and screeching in the sky, had returned to their branches to be still and silent. Now, their black eyes focused on the scene below.
The buffalo, swaying from side to side, pawed the ground. He shook his head, then choked and rasped as squelching rumbles poured from his throat.
A stick had pierced his hind leg, burrowing deep into his calf-muscle. He writhed and twisted, trying to escape the pain; he rubbed his leg against the tree trunk. The stick snapped with a soft thunk. The buried end remained.
Now, if he turned his head as far as his horns would allow, he could see the source of his injury, see the yellow pus that seeped from it, and the tiny black flies that swarmed, then landed to drink their fill.
His body trembled. It was the poison. It had taken three days to do its work, invading his bloodstream, spreading through his body, causing him to sweat and shiver.
He knew that soon he would have to seek a place to rest, a place of shade and soft breeze where he could lie down and wait – for whatever fate had decided.
Suddenly, his muscles tightened and his head jerked up. A wisp of wind had sprung from the east, bringing some coolness to his burning body; it also carried a familiar scent – a foul smell that, in the past, had always caused him to turn and trot away in disgust. Today, for the first time, he stood fast, eyes searching the path that would soon bring the vile creature into his territory with its sickening stink.
The thing that he despised came into view, roaring and spewing its black breath, and at that very moment a spasm of pain, needle sharp, raced through his leg and up into his body. He shuddered, then pawed the ground once more. White foam formed at his mouth and his breathing grew quicker.
He waited.
The intruder drew near. When it was opposite, he didn’t hesitate. Today, he would not flee. It was time to show his anger. Bellowing his rage, he lowered his head and charged. Bushes and saplings flattened as he bolted towards the monster, his black eyes fixed and unblinking. White streams of spittle flew from his mouth. Today, his enemy would die.
He slammed into the side of the beast. Sudden shock waves rang through the bush. The cockatoos stirred and flapped their wings.
Shaking his head, he stood and watched as his enemy toppled over onto its side, watched as it hesitated before rolling, almost in slow motion, off the dirt track and down into a deep wash-a-way, where it lay, unmoving, on its back.
A cloud of red dust swirled above the crumpled heap, the only sound a whup-whup-whupping that came from the round things attached to its belly.
‘Whup – Whup – Whup – Whup’.
The rhythmic beats slowed, then died.
Content now, the buffalo shook his head once again, then turned and made his way into the scrub.
He felt the wind strengthen as he struggled to reach the place where he too would die, heard it rustle through the treetops, heard it whimper among the tall grass like a lost animal. Heard the cockatoos as they flew squawking into the sky.
Everyone who knew Jacinta Kelly called her Jars. Now, on the edge of Jacana Billabong, standing on the sun-baked mud that circled its shores, she gazed across its grey waters. In the shallows, several swamp birds waded and fed among the floating lily pads. There were egrets, herons, magpie geese, ducks and jacanas. She had often laughed at the jacanas as they strode about in their superior way, twisting their snake-like necks to impossible angles. But not today. Today, she couldn’t laugh.
A dead earth stink rose from the hard black mud at her feet. She crinkled her nose and sighed, wishing she hadn’t come back to this place; it held too many memories, thoughts best forgotten that bunched and twisted in her head like writhing snakes.
Her stomach clenched and churned, and bile rose in her throat. She gagged. Bending over, hands on knees, she spat out a glob of yellow-green gunk. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she stood, seeing for the thousandth time the place where she and her brother had visited nearly every day – the baked mudflats where occasional eucalypts and tea-trees grew, the thick bushland beyond, and the billabong where barramundi swam with crocodiles, and where rifle fish spent their days hovering in the shade of the spreading fronds of the pandanus bushes.
It had been three months since the day of the accident. Her body had mended – the broken leg and ribs, the smashed skull – but the scars in her mind remained, sensitive when nudged. And so, with the familiarity of the billabong – the birds, the animal sounds, the heady mixture of bush scents – the unwanted memories had come back, surging and boiling inside her.
She bent over once again, choking and spewing onto the ground.
She wiped her lips free of spit once again. ‘It sucks,’ she said aloud. ‘It bloody well sucks! Why