At first, he thought it was just another rock in the water. Its grey colour and rounded shape hardly stood out from the rest of the landscape. What caught his attention was the fact that it lay right where he had climbed from the water—with Wally’s help—on the previous day. He would have tripped over it had it been there at the time.
Rising to his feet once more, Malcolm tentatively inched over to the water’s edge and reached for the ballooning mass of fabric and wadding. He tried to pull it from the water, but his strength was sapped and the sleeping bag, sodden with water, had become a ponderous weight. He pulled as hard as he could and heard the fabric rip. He tumbled backwards, the fall grinding his injured leg against the ground. Malcolm howled with pain, his cries resounding from the towering ironstone cliffs.
Deciding to abandon any hope of retrieving the swag from the water, he limped back to the western side and flopped down under what little shade remained.
Trying—with limited success—not to imagine why or how Wally’s swag had found its way into the water, he gathered his thoughts. What was that sound that had woken him? Was there something in the water—something terrible—that had attempted to snatch him and had later taken Wally instead? He’d heard the legends, of course. Aborigines all over Australia warned about mysterious creatures that inhabited rivers and lakes; waiting, ready to seize any unwary visitor. They were known by various names, but Bunyip was the most common.
Malcolm didn’t believe in such things. Nevertheless, he decided he would not be spending another night at this particular waterhole. It was still early enough, he reckoned. If he left within the next hour he could make it back to the Toyota before nightfall. His injured leg would slow him down, and the fever might sap his strength, but he was determined he could make it.
He opened Wally’s backpack, emptying the contents over a wide, flat rock. No trace of the keys. There was a wallet, pocket watch, mobile phone—useless out here, of course— even a change of underwear, but no car keys. If Wally had left, he’d left in a hurry.
Malcolm stashed the pocket watch and wallet in his trouser pockets. No sense leaving these for the dingoes, he thought. He made himself a meal of as much of the remaining food as he could eat, and carrying nothing but a full waterbag, he set off on the trek back to civilisation.
* * *
His newly-acquired pocket watch had told him it was a little after one o’clock when he set off. He’d travelled just over a half-kilometre, having taken at least 30 minutes to do so, when he heard it.
The sound was like nothing Malcolm had ever heard. It started as a low howl and escalated to a strange ‘Yip Yip’ at the end. He stopped in his tracks and turned back in the direction of the cry. Back towards the waterhole. Ouuuu-yipyip! There it was again! Was it looking for him—angry at being denied another victim? Was it trumpeting its victory to who-or-whatever could hear? One thing he knew with certainty was that he wanted to put as much distance as possible between that awful sound and himself.
He turned his back on the haunting scream and lunged forward, willing himself onward despite his dizziness and the stabbing pain in his leg. He stumbled, grazing an arm and striking his head on a jagged rock. Blood dripped down his forehead.
Ouuuu-yipyip! Was it getting louder?
He forced himself to rise and staggered onwards a few more metres. The blood from his cut head dripped from his chin and he halted with a start. ‘Fuck me! I’m leaving a blood trail,’ he said aloud. If that thing—whatever it is—is stalking me, he thought, I’m giving it a perfect trail to follow.
Rummaging through his pockets, he found a large handkerchief and wound it tightly around his head, covering the wound. He figured it wasn’t deep, head wounds always bled more than might be expected. Once it was covered, and the blood congealed in the cloth, he was sure it would stop. He drank deeply from the waterbag and lunged forward once again.
It was after three o’clock when Malcolm realised he wasn’t going to reach the Toyota before dark. He estimated he’d covered no more than a third of the total distance. Twice since his fall, he’d heard the strange cry echoing through the trees, but it had grown fainter each time. Maybe it couldn’t leave the water, he reasoned. He resolved to seek a place to hole up for the night. Maybe after a good sleep, he would be better able to tackle the rough terrain and his growing weakness.
Several hundred metres ahead, he could see the familiar spreading boughs of a large tree. There was probably a small waterhole there, he thought. That would be where he’d stop for today.
One hour later, he collapsed beneath the welcoming, spreading branches of a River Gum. No other tree of any significance seemed able to survive this terrain. He’d been right about the water, but he was glad he didn’t have to drink any of it.
After resting, he climbed as high up into the tree as he could, and waited for nightfall. If that thing—or any other thing—was looking for him, he hoped it didn’t climb trees. Sleeping in a tree is fine in theory. In practice?—not so much. Several times throughout the night he almost fell. It was mostly the thought of what might be waiting at the foot of the tree that kept him alert enough to stay perched in his makeshift sanctuary.
By five am it was light enough to see his way, and he climbed down from his refuge. Sleep had been fitful at best, but at least he had rested. He hadn’t heard the sound again.
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