CHAPTER 43

Rhino awakens to the crisp freshness of a new day. He tilts his head and inhales many delectable smells. The fuggy cowness of Dominique and the feathery pungency of the ladies, both of which make him immensely happy.

Then there’s the aroma and the delightful rankness of the warm straw upon which they lay. The richness of bran and molasses, the mustiness of the stables, the smell of dubbin on leather and the sweet tang of fresh horse manure.

He takes his time to rise, farting with the effort. Upon standing, he sways and arches his back, stretching out one leg at a time. He swirls his tail and saunters to the door of the stables. Yawning loudly, with a great huff of grassy morning breath, he nudges the door open with his horn.

On the breeze he can smell the loamy richness of dirt and the divine stink of the wallow. He can smell worms, swamp hens and yams. And dogs, silly dogs. He can smell the sharp urine of cats, the reek of monkeys and the sweetness of new shoots of growth. Then he smells her, the familiar milk and honey sweetness of the golden-haired child. The small human called Evie. His Evie.

His heart lifts. He knows today will be another day of wonder, full of walking and exploring and staring at clouds drifting across the sky. It will be a day of licking rain from clover leaves and nuzzling and huffling with Dominique. It will be a day of bird watching and wallowing in cool silky black mud and of ear scratches and of all things Evie.

Rhino hasn’t thought of his old home for a while now; and if he does, it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. This place, this special place – like the place he has in his heart for Evie – is his home. Evie is home.

He can hear her footfalls as she comes to him now, as quiet as the night. Sleepy eyed and tussle-haired, she leans into him. With desperation she clasps his head as only she does, staring at him with a deep intensity. Her little hands scratch behind his ears. She whispers things he doesn’t understand, but he knows in his heart their meaning by the rise and fall of her voice. She’s like a little bird. His little bird. His tummy rumbles with contentment as he lowers his nose to snuffle her hair to wish her, too, a good morning.

 

 

 

29th September 1891

Dear Sir,

I apologize for the delay in my correspondence.

Unfortunately, I have bad news for the Royal Zoological Society.

There is no rhinoceros at Breamlea. There never was. I believe an elderly farmer saw a bull seal in the shallows and imagined it to be a rhinoceros.

I would like to take this opportunity to inform you I will not be returning to work for you, nor for the Royal Zoological Society.

I am not certain about what the future holds for me, but, for once in my life, I will determine it for myself and I am excited at the prospect.

There is one other delicate matter I must raise. It is in regards to the next edition of your self-proclaimed book The Birds of Australia. Let me make this clear, Father – the next reprint will in no uncertain terms acknowledge the joint authorship of you and C H Strahan. If you refuse these terms, I shall be forced to expose your dishonesty, which I can assure you will result in your public humiliation and disgrace.

I bid you farewell.

Your son,

George Henley