He blinked several times to calm himself. He was in a kind of clearing, with rocks and brown leaves strewn across the ground and flecked with sharp shards of sunlight. When he stopped trembling, he looked around. Just a few steps away from where he stood, he saw a kangaroo.
The kangaroo was lying sideways on the ground. Its head was sunk in the dirt and its eyes were open, seeing nothing. There was a trickle of sticky blood coming from just below its furry neck, where the bullet had struck. Who had shot it? Hunters, he supposed, although they were not allowed to shoot in this part of the bush.
The kangaroo’s belly was rising and falling with quick breaths. Its tail stretched out behind it in a thick curve across the earth. Pender had seen dead animals before, but not one at the point of death. He knew what he was seeing now. The kangaroo had been shot, and it was dying.
He walked slowly over and crouched down next to the stretched-out body. He had such a strange feeling. It was the same feeling he’d had when he once came across a nest of baby birds hidden behind the henhouse. They’d just come out of their eggs, and their tiny beaks were opening and closing, making the smallest, softest peeping sounds. He knew he was near something very important. It was like discovering a secret.
The kangaroo lay motionless, except for the very slight rise and fall of its breath. Pender didn’t know afterwards how long he crouched there, watching. It was as though there was no time and all the clocks had stopped.
Finally, the kangaroo stopped breathing. Pender reached out his hand and touched the brown-grey fur.
‘Poor thing,’ he muttered, and stroked its still belly.
He stiffened suddenly and pulled his hand back. He had felt a movement. Was he mistaken—was the kangaroo breathing? He put his hand very gently again on the rough fur. The body was moving, he could feel it and see it, right there in front of him. But the kangaroo was not breathing. What was happening?
Something was struggling inside it. Something that wanted to get out. Pender gazed in utter astonishment.
Out of the kangaroo’s pouch came one little black spiky foot. Then another.
Then a tiny black nose.
Two small ears. Two bright round eyes.
Those two eyes stared and the two ears pricked up.
Brindabella.
It would be impossible to say who was more amazed by the sight of the other, the boy or the joey.
Brindabella made a sudden lunge forward. She was straining to get out of her mother’s pouch. Her legs were so long, it seemed as if she was tangled up with her own body.
Pender hesitated. He wanted to help the joey get out, but he was afraid that he might hurt her—or she might hurt him! She must be very frightened. And her claws looked sharp.
‘But if I don’t help you,’ said Pender, only realising the truth of what he was saying as he spoke the words, ‘you will die.’
He could see that the joey had fur and was big enough to hop around by herself, but he knew she was too young to survive without her mother. She needed her mother, just like those baby birds behind the henhouse with their endless opening beaks and tiny cries. If he left her there by herself, she would not have enough to eat or drink and she would not be able to get away from dingos or wild dogs.
Pender couldn’t bear to think that the joey might die. He had to keep her alive, keep her safe. But how?
‘I’ll take her back home with me,’ he thought. ‘Dad will know what to do, how to look after her.’
His father knew all about animals—not just cats and dogs and chickens, but all manner of bush animals as well. He would know the right thing to do. He would understand that Pender could not just leave her where she was.
‘Dad will know,’ he murmured to the joey. ‘Don’t worry.’
Brindabella had pushed her delicate shoulders halfway out of the pouch by now. Her fur was patchy and growing in all directions. Pender untied his jacket from around his waist. He knew he had to act quickly to make sure he got hold of her before she was able to hop away from him, terrified, into the bush.
Now was the moment! He came forward swiftly, enclosing the joey in his jacket and lifting her up and out of the pouch into his arms. He held her struggling, shaking body against his chest. Brindabella arched her back like a cat.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Pender, hanging on tight. She was strong! ‘Don’t be scared, joey. I won’t hurt you.’
How her heart was hammering! She pushed wildly against him with the claws of all her legs, slapping her tail. Pender stood up and pulled the flaps of his jacket around her as firmly as he could. The joey dug her claws into him and he bit his lip against the pain. But he did not let go. He clung to Brindabella and Brindabella clung to him.
They left the forest together, slowly and carefully back through the wall of trees and down, very slowly, to the riverbank. Pender held the trembling creature close to his heart. She seemed to become calmer with the movement and her thin little tail swung down from the jacket.
They made their way together along the winding pathway strewn with yellow wattle and fallen branches, following the river steadily all the way until they reached the muddy slope that led up to the house. Pender climbed straight up the hill to the hut where his father and Billy-Bob were. The cows in the field watched him, as did the old
