Over the coming days, Coorinna and the lost dog maintained their odd friendship. Often the lonely she-tiger cocked her head, ears straining to detect the call of her kind. Her sensitive nose tested the air over and over for the scent of another thylacine. She was ever disappointed.
All through the bush, life renewed itself. Spring was in full flux. Tender shoots of grass sprang fresh underfoot. Waratah and leatherwood flowers unfurled. Eager seedlings emerged from the warming earth, vying for the sun’s strengthening kiss, and stands of native beech burst into bright leaf.
The quickening of sap in the forest was matched by the urgent desire of bush creatures to go forth and multiply. From the lowliest minnow to the lordly wedge-tailed eagle, all sought the comfort and satisfaction of a partner. The uplands throbbed with fertile vitality. Yet Coorinna remained unmated.
Her cubs, untroubled by their mother’s restlessness, explored all their mountain home could offer. Each night there were new smells to investigate, new creatures to chase, fresh tarns to splash through with faithful Bear as escort. But their cautious mother was unwilling to travel too far. With unerring accuracy she always delivered the little pack safely back to their den by dawn.
Though unsuccessful in her efforts to find a mate, in other ways Coorinna’s life was greatly improved. The active assistance of Bear and her growing cubs meant their hunting forays rarely failed. Coorinna grew strong. She no longer discouraged Bear. His unfailing good nature and the cubs’ confidence in him allayed her fears.
The first few times Bear ventured inside the den he was swiftly repelled. But persistence paid and within days Coorinna’s attacks lost their fury. Soon she accepted him deep within the comfortable lair, which she’d lined with ferns and moss. She even tended his injury, unable to resist cleaning Bear’s festering shoulder with her neat, efficient tongue. The grateful dog lay very still, acknowledging her assistance with an occasional tail thump. Thanks to Coorinna’s constant attention, the infection soon abated and Bear’s wound healed.
Luke wasn’t so fortunate. His injured shoulder continued to plague him, growing more and more painful each day. It was one thing to bid his fears goodbye in the cleansing creek with a new set of clothes and Angus for company. But it was quite another to maintain a positive outlook through the dreary days that followed. He didn’t hunt or trap; he felt too ill. He called for Bear and left out damper, but the dog never came. More than Luke’s shoulder ached now. His heart ached too – with despair and loneliness. A week passed. More.
His imagination filled the forest with strange, half-seen forms, and he stayed close to the hut. The sight of old Clarry’s grave in the shadow of the trees never failed to disturb him. All too often now, he imagined his own to be the next set of bleached bones to be scattered carelessly over the grass. Luke spent his days watching for Angus to return. Though on guard against strangers, he saw no one. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth.
He slept more and more, finding comfort in the dream world.
In sleep, Bear always came when called. With the big dog at his side, baying at a dream moon, Luke returned effortlessly to his family or travelled the world on wings of steel forged by his own hand. At other times, he sat in judgement upon a snivelling, pleading Henry Abbott, unceremoniously consigning him to the hangman’s noose.
Luke became eager for sleep. He neglected his wound. And for some reason, he didn’t feel hungry any more. The days melted into each other with seamless tedium.
One morning he didn’t leave the hut at all. The hearth lay cold and Luke stayed in bed, mind muddled with fever. That night Bear’s howl seemed to travel back with him from the dream world. Sometimes he heard a whimper when he thought he was awake.
Luke stumbled to his feet, pissed on the dead fire and collapsed back to bed, trembling and delirious. A bitter south wind had blown the door open and the hut was freezing. Yet Luke felt unbearably hot, and tore off his shirt. He could swear he saw Bear, but he didn’t trust his senses. Thresholds of reality and imagination blurred as infection took serious hold.
For three days and nights Luke battled the fever: barely conscious, eyes closed, head aching, dreams no longer pleasurable. The creaking of the walls in the wind became the creaking of the old pony cart, carrying his trembling sister home from Henry Abbott’s house. The moaning and wailing of storms through the forest became the cries of his mother as the constables dragged him away. His jaw clenched weakly, muscles quivering, twitching, exhausting his sick body even further.
Bear stood beside Luke’s bed. Despite the company of his strange pack, he yearned for something more, something lost. He yearned for the companionship of man, to sleep before a fire, to feel the touch of a hand. To hear a loving voice.
As morning passed into afternoon, Bear maintained his vigil. There was comfort in proximity to the sleeping man. Bear licked Luke’s arm, where it sprawled across the floor. It was bathed in perspiration. He made a thorough job of it, cleaning every inch of bare skin. He pulled at the filthy shoulder bandage until it came away. He cleaned the oozing wound with his tongue. Then he lay down beside Luke, relishing the feel of the man’s limp hand pressed against him. There he remained for many hours, until Luke’s stirring broke the spell. Bear didn’t go far, just down to the creek for a drink before settling contentedly on the sunny doorstep, where he snatched an hour or two of sleep. It was late afternoon before he returned to the tigers.
A cooperative strategy was developing within the pack. Bear took his cues from Coorinna and proved an apt student. With a functional family group of two adults and three half-grown cubs, Coorinna could use the time-honoured hunting practices learned from her mother. Stronger, and growing sleek of hide, she now targeted wallabies, her favourite food.
The two smaller cubs would show themselves to a group of wallabies foraging at the forest edge. With instinctive precision they chased their prey in the direction of Bear, Coorinna and the male cub who hid crouched some distance ahead. When the wallabies came bounding along, the waiting predators singled out the weakest animal and launched an attack.
The big dog learned quickly. Ten thousand years of domestication was hardly enough to extinguish two million years of evolution for such basic instincts as predatory aggression. Given the opportunity to track prey or pursue a moving target, the wolf in Bear made a sudden resurgence.
He became a formidable killer: finely tuned, controlled and intelligent – a worthy honorary thylacine. Even large kangaroos couldn’t withstand the assault of two hundred pounds of muscle, teeth and bone. When his fangs found their throats, he braced his forefeet, hurled himself backwards like a spring released, and it was over.
This became Bear’s routine – hunting with the pack by night and spending his days at the hut. The cubs were curious about where Bear disappeared to each day, but a stern glance from their mother discouraged their adventurous attempts to follow him.
Luke woke to the musical sound of magpies. His thirst burned, but the searing heat was gone from his brow. His body felt cool, almost cold. His head no longer throbbed and his shoulder barely pained him. He tried to move his legs, but they refused to obey him. Luke turned to see if his water-pot was within reach.
Bear was sitting by the door. For a while Luke imagined himself still asleep and fought against waking. The dog was even larger than he remembered: shinier, fatter, his huge frame blocking the doorway. Luke reached out and Bear flinched. Luke called, but his parched throat made no sound. He tried to stand. On the third attempt he succeeded.
Luke gulped down the few drops of water in the pot, soothing his swollen tongue. Now perhaps he could speak. He called to Bear. The dog shivered, as if afraid. Luke was afraid too – afraid that Bear would leave, that Bear would desert him.
Bear backed from the hut, out of sight. Luke stumbled to the door. Would the dog be gone? No, there he was – waiting, watching. Relief swept through Luke, threatening to drain the strength from his legs. Steadying himself, he picked up the pot. He tried to whistle but his lips were too dry. Instead he patted his thigh several times in what he hoped was an encouraging way, and cast a friendly, expectant glance at Bear. Then he moved off towards the creek.
To his delight the dog followed, maintaining a discreet distance. Luke reached the creek, gulping down great draughts of sweet water. Energy seeped into his dehydrated body. Bear watched while Luke sat on a rock, drenched his face and hands, and refilled the pot. He inspected his injured shoulder. The wound shone pink and clean. Luke grinned and started for the hut, this time managing a whistle. Bear responded with an uncertain wag of his tail and Luke whooped with delight.
Bear remained at the hut, staying at arm’s length, until the afternoon shadows grew long. Then, with a sharp bark of goodbye, he abruptly disappeared up the timbered slope. Luke cursed the mountain that stole the dog, calling uselessly into the bush until cold and exhaustion drove him inside to find a fitful, restless sleep.