‘I must think about making myself another stick,’ said Pender’s father, as he leaned heavily on Pender’s shoulders.
‘Sorry,’ muttered Pender. ‘I just grabbed it without thinking.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ said his father. ‘It was time for a new stick. I’ve had that one for so long. Now it’s back in the bush where it came from.’
They reached the yard that surrounded the house. On the roof, Ricky, the grey-striped cat, sat brooding lazily; on the verandah, Pertelote was ruffling her feathers and the other hens bobbed about in the grass; in the field, the two black-and-white cows calmly chewed while the old white horse hung her head as always over the fence. No Billy-Bob came rushing forward, wagging his tail and barking. Not even his ghost. Only a memory.
Pender’s father went into the kitchen and began opening the cupboards, looking for something for them to eat.
‘I think I’ll cook something,’ he said.
Pender was startled. It had been a long time since his father had the strength to cook.
‘Are you feeling better?’ he asked.
His father looked at him, and frowned in surprise. ‘I must be,’ he said. ‘That’ll shock the doctor.’ He grinned, and pointed at Pender’s hand. ‘How’s the wound?’
Pender touched the bandage wrapped around his fingers where the bullet had scraped him. It didn’t hurt, not really. But it was his right hand, so that meant he couldn’t hold the pencil to draw for a while. That was all right—he didn’t feel like drawing.
After his hand was more or less healed, he still didn’t feel like drawing. When he looked at the stubs of charcoal, it was as though he’d forgotten how.
One afternoon, he went around the house and took down the pictures he had put on the wall and shelves. Then he gathered his sketchbooks and put everything he’d done in a pile in a cupboard in the living room.
All except one. He left one drawing above the fireplace in the kitchen.
It was of Brindabella standing out on the back step, daintily licking her paws.
A year passed.
Pender grew older and taller. And his father grew better. He still walked with a stick, but he no longer lay in bed. Something had happened that night in the dark in the bush that made him stronger. He didn’t know what it was. Nobody knew what it was. Not even the doctor knew.
One afternoon, Pender was looking for some paper for a maths problem he was working on for school. He opened the cupboard in the living room and came across the pile of drawings and sketchbooks. They were just as he had left them, with a large river stone on top of them that his father must have put there to keep them in a pile.
‘Well,’ said Pender to himself. ‘Just look at these.’
Here were all his old smudged drawings! He picked up a few and began to flick through the sheets. So many drawings—he had not realised he had done so many. He lay down on the sofa and began to look through the sketchbooks, flipping the pages over one by one.
He had drawn the house, the garden, the beehive, the rocking chair. He had drawn Pertelote, the other hens, the cat on the roof, the wombats on the hill. He had drawn the cows, the horse, the hut, the beckoning bush. And little Billy-Bob. It was a strange feeling, like seeing the remains of a magical world that had disappeared...
But most of all, of course, he had drawn Brindabella. Brindabella lying, jumping, eating, resting, scratching. Brindabella in the bush, Brindabella at home. Brindabella sleeping, Brindabella hopping, Brindabella thinking. Her proud face, her paws, the curve of her back, her beautiful tail.
He stopped at one of the pages. There was Brindabella, looking straight at him enigmatically, surrounded by bush. He remembered that day. It was the day he had taken her along the river to the clearing where he had first found her with her mother. They had spent hours there together in the warm afternoon shadows. Pender gazed at the picture and the world around him fell silent.
Suddenly he laid the book down on the floor and sat up. He had not been back to that place since... But now, he wanted to go. Up to the bush, to the hollow clearing, the low cliff of sandstone and ceiling of leaves and tall, tall trees. Brindabella would not be there, he knew that. She would be far away, she had found her mob. But he had to go. He had to see the place again, where they had first met each other.
His father had gone out, but soon he would be home. Pender didn’t want him to know where he was going. He didn’t want anyone to know. He laced up his walking boots and ran from the house as though he were being chased. Pertelote and the hens scattered and squawked as he bolted past.
‘I wonder,’ said Pertelote, bobbing her head. ‘I wonder.’
Pender ran all the way down to the river, all along the river track. Then he headed up the steep side of the hill. He had not forgotten how to get there. Or the feeling, once there, of being welcomed, enveloped by the trees and the sense of coolness in the sudden shade.
When he reached the clearing, everything was just as he remembered it. It was like a dream. It was quiet and perfect. He waited a moment for his heart to slow down, then climbed up the big sandy rock where he had sat before, and lay down on it, flat on his back. He stared upwards at the glimpses of blue sky through the tangled branches.
‘I’d like to paint that,’ he thought.
There was a noise below. It was a kind of beating on the ground, like an uncertain drum, starting and stopping again. Something was down there on
