Kim woke early to a rosy, rain-washed sky. She’d endured a restless night, and half-remembered dreams hovered just out of reach. Only their vague, unsettling emotions remained. The kids were still asleep. She dressed quickly, called Dusty from Jake’s bed, and went out to meet the morning.
Just what she needed. A brisk uphill walk past the dam, and a great lungful of fresh mountain air. Notes of mint, eucalyptus, laurel, and the rich earthy smell of damp soil. Leafy bouquets of wind-whipped twigs and branches littered the ground, evidence of the storm. Bull ants scavenged for drowned insects, and toiled to rebuild their flooded mounds. Glossy satin bowerbirds bathed in puddles, their iridescent blue-black plumage gleaming in the cold morning sun. The bush revelled in the rain’s aftermath.
Dusty was enjoying himself too. He bounded on ahead, plunging into the brimming dam, snatching at reeds and floating bark streamers as he dog-paddled about. Kim sat down on a fallen log to watch. Seven months old now, and acquiring the strength and grace of an adult – was it just her, or was the mountain dingo in him showing more and more? In his cat-like agility, and the dexterity of his paws. Dusty used them like hands to turn doorknobs; his rotating wrist-bones were unique in the canine world. In his soft, dark double-coat that kept him warm on the coldest night and allowed him to slip unseen through the shadowy forest. And in the keen, almost human intelligence shining from his eyes. If she could see the growing resemblance to a dingo, so might others. Dusty was due to be desexed the following week when the kids went back to school. Perhaps she should take him farther afield than the vet in Wingham where he’d had his vaccinations.
Dusty leaped from the water, and galloped towards her. Kim jumped to her feet and ran for the house, knowing what would happen next. It was a futile escape attempt. He overtook her in a few strides, propped in front of her and shook himself, showering her with a rainbow of spray until she was as wet as him. ‘I’ll get you for that,’ she said, shaking with laughter. He smiled – she could swear he smiled as warmly as any person – put his tail between his legs and scooted away, inviting play.
Then it was on. They tore through the trees, taking turns to chase each other in a gloriously silly game of tag. When she finally collapsed on a green carpet of moss, Dusty dropped down beside her. They lay together in companionable silence. Panting, happy, filled with the joy of young things, although Kim was no longer young. It didn’t matter. With one wave of his plumed tail, the dingo could transport her back to the untroubled days of childhood. Then Dusty raised his head, pricking his ears towards the house. It was very early for visitors.
The car bore the words Wingham Gazette on its door. Two people stood beside it. The man held a camera and the woman looked vaguely familiar. Dusty kept his distance. He was always shy and cautious with strangers.
‘Del Fisher.’ The woman shook Kim’s hand. ‘And this is Andy, my cameraman.’
The penny dropped. The reporter she’d met at the brumby catch. What was she doing there?
‘I didn’t have contact details for you, so thought I’d just rock up. I’m still interested in doing a piece on your rewilding project. Especially now you’re bringing back dingoes. That’s a fascinating angle and, may I say, quite a controversial one.’
Oh no. Time to shut this thing down. ‘Sorry, I’m not interested.’
‘I can promise you a fabulous feature,’ said Del. ‘Double page spread, lots of photos, and syndication in newspapers throughout rural New South Wales. I wouldn’t be surprised if the nationals picked up a story like this.’
‘I don’t want publicity.’
‘Publicity could bring in funds, sponsors.’
‘At the moment, I’m funding the project myself.’ Del took a pen and notebook from her bag, and started scribbling. ‘Put that away,’ said Kim. ‘I said no story.’
‘Look, Kim, I have to be honest. This piece will go to print, with or without you.’ As Kim opened her mouth to protest, Del held up her hand. ‘Don’t blame me. Not my call. But if this article is a done deal, which it is, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to be part of it?’
Kim knew when she was being wedged. But Del was right. She couldn’t afford to let the story get out without putting her side as persuasively as possible.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s do this.’
‘Do you have time now? Otherwise we can —’
‘Now’s fine.’
Del was as good as her word, asking intelligent questions, and taking lots of photographs. Kim showed her the rows and rows of seedlings under shade cloth. She showed her the seed propagating igloos and the orchid house. ‘These are endangered ravine orchids.’ Kim put two tiny pots into Del’s hand, and the cameraman took a close-up. ‘Wild goats devastated the only site where they’re known to grow locally, a rock face above Cedar Creek. But when the dingoes moved in, the goats moved out, and the orchids are starting to recover.’
‘Great,’ said Del. ‘People love orchids. After we finish here, can you show me the site?’
Kim nodded. At least she seemed to be getting a fair hearing.
Del loved the orphaned wildlife: the joeys, possums and new baby wombat. She seemed particularly charmed by the little quolls. ‘Surely if you plan to release native animals like these, bringing back dingoes is foolish?’
‘It’s counterintuitive, I know,’ said Kim. ‘But dingoes actually improve the survival of small mammals.’
‘That makes no sense.’
‘In the past two centuries, thirty mammals have become extinct in Australia, animals that had lived quite happily with dingoes for thousands of years. That’s half the mammalian extinctions in the world. Eastern hare-wallaby? Gone. Lesser bilby? Gone. Broad-faced potoroo? Gone. Dingoes aren’t the problem. It’s the explosion in fox and cat numbers when dingoes are exterminated.’
‘That’s fascinating. Can you cite studies to prove it?’
‘Sure. Come inside.’ The kids were in the kitchen making toast. ‘This is Abbey and Jake.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Del. Dusty padded over to Jake. ‘Is that one of your dingoes?’
Andy snapped a photo.
‘Dusty’s not a dingo,’ said Jake. ‘He’s a kelpie.’
‘Ahh,’ said Del. ‘My mistake. He’s certainly a beautiful dog.’
‘Come through,’ said Kim, anxious to take the focus off Dusty. They followed her into the lounge room, where Kim had her laptop set up at a desk in the corner. She showed Del studies by Chris Johnson at James Cook University, Dr Thomas Newsome of Sydney University, and half-a-dozen more. ‘I’ll send you the links,’ she said. ‘Dingoes don’t just protect native animals. They protect plants too. Take a look at this.’
Kim clicked through to the photos of her regeneration plots, before and after the dingoes’ release. ‘See the damage caused by browsing animals in these first shots? We had massive problems: deer, goats, wallabies, roos. They ate everything down, knocked over fences and tree guards. Rabbits nibbled the fresh shoots and dug up roots.’
She scrolled through to the ‘after’ shots of thriving plantings and healthy saplings bursting with vigorous new growth. The contrast was plain.
‘All because of dingoes,’ said Kim. ‘Herbivores are much more wary now. They don’t hang round the flats, but keep to the cover of gullies and ridge tops. It makes regenerating the rainforest so much easier.’ As Del dutifully took notes, Kim relaxed a little. How great to make this sort of information public. The article might be a good thing after all. ‘If you like, I’ll take you and Andy out to see for yourselves.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Del. ‘But there’s another side to this, isn’t there? The farmers’ side. You know that old saying – the only good dingo is a dead dingo.’
Kim did not know it, and it gave her a chill.
‘Emotions run pretty high on the subject. So much so that people have even warned me against writing this article.’
Kim turned off the laptop, and wished Del had taken that most excellent advice.
‘I heard the dingoes have already killed some of your neighbours’ sheep.’
Kim’s mouth went dry. She hadn’t expected news to travel so fast. Damn Mel and her big mouth. ‘Two sheep at She-Oak Springs were found dead yesterday,’ she said. ‘But there’s no conclusive proof that dingoes were responsible.’
Del tilted her head and gave Kim a knowing look. ‘But it’s likely, isn’t it? The carcasses were partially eaten.’
‘Well, yes, but . . .’ The answer wasn’t coming out the way she meant it to.
‘I think we’ve finished here.’ Del closed her notebook. ‘How about we go bush now, and you can show me around.’
Del spent a good two hours out in the field. She wanted to see everything. The creek, the regeneration sites, the soft-release pens and the tracts of pristine rainforest along the northern boundary.
‘Will we see dingoes?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Kim. ‘They’re elusive at the best of times, and very shy of strangers.’ They finished the tour at a vantage point on the border of Tarringtops National Park. A wild luxuriance of virgin forest stretched southwards, clothing the hills in a mottled cloak of green. There was something timeless, almost holy, about the view, and it never failed to send a tingle down Kim’s spine.
‘Magnificent.’ Del’s voice was husky with emotion. ‘These forests feel ancient.’
‘I’ll show you a red cedar on the way back that’s at least three hundred years old. If people had built these rainforests, they’d be national treasures.’
‘There must be a fortune in timber here,’ said Del. ‘The trees are lucky to have you as their protector.’
A warm glow of pride passed through her. Protector of Trees. A title worth fighting for.
It was three o’clock before Kim waved Del and Andy goodbye, with a promise the article would be out the following Wednesday. As they left, they passed Taj coming up the drive.
‘Why was the Gazette here?’ Taj had a grim line to his mouth.
‘They’re doing a piece on rewilding Journey’s End. I didn’t have much choice but to talk to them,’ said Kim. ‘They were doing the story anyway, and at least people will get to hear our side. It went pretty well, although the reporter knew about the sheep killed next door.’
‘Dingoes did not kill them. I found this lodged in the spine of one of the sheep.’ Taj took something from his pocket and handed it to her.
A bullet. It sat, small and deadly, in the palm of her hand, and Kim stiffened. ‘It was shot?’
‘They both were. In the body, not the head. Blood trails quickly bring foxes.’
Kim tried to process what she’d heard. ‘The sheep . . . did they die straight away?’
Taj shook his head, and held out two empty shell casings. ‘I found these on the ground a hundred metres away, near a faint set of tyre tracks.’
Kim blanched as the full horror hit her. Pity and anger vied for top place. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We have to tell Mel.’
When they arrived at the She-Oak Springs homestead, an unfamiliar Land Rover was parked outside, and Mel’s car was nowhere to be seen. Snow’s barking summoned a woman from the house. She was a few years older than Mel, but the family resemblance was plain: same dark curly hair, same round cheeks. ‘Mel’s away for a while. I’m Nicole, her sister.’
‘It’s very important that I reach her.’ Kim spotted Todd and Grace watching from the back door, and waved.
‘Have you tried her phone?’
Kim nodded. ‘She’s not answering.’
A shadow passed over Nicole’s face. ‘And you are?’
‘Kim Sullivan from next door.’
Her eyes hardened. ‘So you’re the crazy woman from Sydney, who set dingoes loose next to a sheep station.’
Kim took a step backwards. ‘Please, I have to talk to Mel.’
‘You’ve done quite enough damage to my sister already. Mel’s had a hard time this year, what with Geoff leaving and everything. The one bright spot was this new friend who’d moved in next door, with kids the same age. She talked about you all the time, admired you, trusted you – and then you go and stab her in the back.’
‘You’ve got it wrong. Dingoes didn’t kill her sheep.’
‘Like hell they didn’t.’ Nicole’s nostrils flared with anger, and she was suddenly in Kim’s face. ‘You and your mangy dingoes should be shot. Now get the fuck out of here, and take Muhammad with you.’
Taj gently took her arm. ‘Come. This won’t help.’
Nicole sneered. ‘That’s right. Better listen to your muzzie friend.’ She was so close Kim could feel spittle on her cheek.
‘Come,’ Taj urged again.
This time Kim allowed herself to be led away. The barrage of hostility had left her shaken, adding to the dark pit in her stomach when she thought of the sheep slowly dying.
‘I can’t believe she’s Mel’s sister,’ she said once they were safely in the car.
Taj put the ute in gear. ‘Nicole is different to Mel. Her mind is closed. Once she makes it up, she will not be swayed by facts, or truth, or reason.’ His tone was solemn, like he was delivering a much broader wisdom. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
How did he bear it? Muhammad. Muzzie.
‘We should tell nobody about the sheep being shot,’ he said. ‘Not until we can talk to Mel. If she hears it from somebody else, without the evidence or the first-hand account of what I found – she will not believe it.’
‘What about Ben?’
The muscle in his jaw twitched again.
‘Nobody.’
Kim studied his face in profile. Dark, watchful eyes that missed nothing. Unruly hair sweeping back from a high forehead. A square, striking face, full of strength. Inscrutable. That scar. For all their old conversations, which she still missed, in some ways Taj remained as enigmatic as on the day they first met.
‘I bloody well hope Mel doesn’t stay away for too long. I don’t know how long I can stomach living next door to her sister.’
‘I will be away too,’ said Taj. ‘A fencing job north of Taree.’
‘How long?’
‘Two weeks, maybe less. When I get back, we’ll convince Mel together that the dingoes are not a threat.’
Two weeks.
Kim forced a smile she did not feel.