‘Oh!’ said Brindabella, stumbling back a few paces.
A wombat! A large, heavy-set, elderly wombat came ambling towards her across the floor of leaves and stones.
‘Ha!’ said the wombat.
He settled himself in front of her. Brindabella was used to wombats, of course, from her occasional dull conversations over the fence with the wombat families that gathered on the hills around Pender’s house to graze. This wombat seemed older, though. His whiskers were white and his fur ragged and flecked with grey.
‘Where did you spring from?’ asked the Old Wombat.
‘Who wants to know?’ replied Brindabella at once. Although her heart was pounding, she had lost none of her natural bite.
The Old Wombat laughed—or so it sounded to Brindabella—a funny, coughing, grunting sort of noise.
‘Well, I’d like to know, for one,’ he replied. ‘Why are you here by yourself, and so young at that?’
‘It’s no crime to be young and alone, is it?’ said Brindabella, trying to look casual. ‘Of course,’ she added, ‘I must admit, I may not know all the rules. I am no ordinary kangaroo, you see.’
The Old Wombat came closer.
‘You look ordinary enough,’ he gruffly commented.
Brindabella slapped her tail in irritation.
‘Well, I’m not!’ she retorted. ‘I am special. I’ll have you know that I have been brought up in a human household. I am no ordinary kangaroo!’
The Old Wombat ground one of his thick paws carefully into the dirt, as though he was considering something.
‘Ah, that explains it,’ he nodded to himself.
A branch snapped. Brindabella started in fright.
‘I think I have to go now,’ she said, hoping she did not look as nervous as she felt. Could it have been a dingo? ‘I am going to have some adventures. I can’t stand around here talking about nothing all night.’
‘Adventures,’ repeated the Old Wombat. ‘What sort of adventures?’
‘All sorts,’ said Brindabella firmly. ‘You know. Adventures. Life!’
The Old Wombat nodded. Then he said:
‘You need to be careful, you know, little kangaroo. There are dangers out there for someone like you.’
‘Oh, I know all about dingoes,’ said Brindabella quickly. ‘I’m too fast for them now. They won’t catch me.’
‘I’m not only speaking of dingoes,’ said the Old Wombat. ‘There are things you don’t know about. Things your mother should have taught you. Rabbit traps. Guns.’
‘I know about guns,’ Brindabella replied bitterly. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
There was a silence.
‘Well,’ said the Old Wombat, ‘if your adventures can wait a bit, you’d be better off staying here with me in my burrow until morning. Then you can think a bit about what to do next.’
It was dark, but both of them were able to see quite well without light. Brindabella looked at the Old Wombat and noticed in his eyes something kind—kind, and even clever. Perhaps she should rest before going on. Her muscles ached and her throat was throbbing. ‘All right then,’ she said. ‘Seeing as you won’t stop going on about it.’
And, in fact, although she would not say it aloud, she was more than a little afraid.
The mouth of the Old Wombat’s burrow was next to the burnt tree stump, hidden from sight by overgrown bushes. He squeezed himself inside it, beckoning to Brindabella to follow. The entrance was just wide enough for her to fit through.
Inside the burrow, it was dark and crumbling and there was a very strong animal smell.
‘My home!’ said the Old Wombat proudly.
‘This is where you live?’ asked Brindabella, wrinkling her nose. She looked around at the dirt walls and the tree roots that spread across them.
‘And my mother before me,’ replied the Old Wombat, ‘and her mother before that.’
‘Goodness!’ said Brindabella, trying to straighten up to her full height without bumping her head. ‘If it were me, I would go somewhere new after all that time.’
The Old Wombat grunted, settling himself back into one of the dirt walls.
‘If I were you and you were me,’ he murmured, breathing in and out noisily. ‘That’s a funny thought. If I were you and you were me. If you were me and I…’
His voice dropped away. To Brindabella’s annoyance, she realised the Old Wombat had fallen fast asleep in the middle of a sentence. Snores shook his big furry body.
‘Just like Billy-Bob!’ she said, and she tossed her head. ‘Good for nothing but lying about the place.’
But she was glad to be enclosed in the musty gloom, this first night, at any rate. She lay back, listening to the bush and the gusty breaths of the Old Wombat until at last she fell asleep herself.
In the morning, when she opened her eyes, she found she had quite lost the fear of the future that she had felt in the night. She blinked, wondering at first where she was. Then she remembered it all—her dramatic escape and her meeting with the Old Wombat. There he was, lying on his back, still asleep and still snoring.
Brindabella got up on her hind legs and scrambled over to the mouth of the burrow. She poked her head outside and looked up. It was dawn. The sky was pink and blue. The air was wonderful. A family of kookaburras sat together in a row on a branch just above her head, cackling loudly.
‘What a carry-on!’ said Brindabella, in a general way, shy to start a conversation with strangers for once.
One of the kookaburras swooped down and perched on the edge of the burnt stump. Its feathers were like dead leaves. It stared at her with beady eyes.
‘Where did you come from?’ the kookaburra asked.
Brindabella pulled herself right out of the Old Wombat's burrow.
‘I was born here!’ she said, shaking the dust off her fur.
‘Born here?’ said the kookaburra. ‘Then why have I never seen you before?’
‘I was brought up by humans,’ said Brindabella. ‘I’ve been away for a time. But now I’m back.’
The kookaburra seemed unimpressed. It shrugged and flew back up to the
